










% 



\ 





























' 





* 

‘ 









* • 
























































‘Em’s” Husbar 

A SEQUEL TO “ EM.” 

y Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southwuiih, 

Author of “The Hidden Hand,” etc. 

ILLUSTRATED BY F. A. CARTER. 


THE LEDGER LIBRARY. 


. Z'EVc 5 IJBLE LIFE. By Mrs. liar- 
vU Lewis. Clotli, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 
2.— UNKNOWN. By Mrs. boutliworili. 

Cloth, $1.00 : paper, 50 cts. 

8.— THE GUNMAKER OF MOSCOW. By 
Cobh, Jr. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 25 cts. 

4. — MAUD MORTON. By Major A. li. 

Calliouu. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

5. — THE HIDDEN HAND. By Mrs. 

Southwortli. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

6. -SUNDERED HEARTS. By Mrs. Har- 

riet Lewis. Clotli, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

7. — THE STONE-CUTTER OF LISBON. 

By W. H.Peck. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

8. — LADY KILDARE. By Mrs. Harriet 

Lewis. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

9. — CIMS ROCK. By Captain Mayne Reid. 

Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

10. — NEAREST AND DEAREST. By Mrs. 

Southwortli. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

11. — THE BAILIFF’S SCHEME. By Mrs. 

Lewis. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

12. — A LEAP IN THE DARK. By Mrs. 

Soutllworth. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

13. — HENRY M. STANLEY. By H. F. Red- 

dall. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

14 -THE OLD LIFE’S SHADOWS. By 
Mrs. Lewis. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 
-A MAD BETROTHAL. By Laura Jean 
Libbey. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

THE LOST LADY OF LONE. By Mrs. 
Southwortli. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, oO cts. 
I ONE. By Laura Jean Libbey. Cloth, 
$1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

FOR WOMAN’S LOVE. By Mrs. South- 
vorth. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper. 50 cts. 

ESAR BIROTTEAU. By Honore De 
^alzac. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

20. -THE BARONESS BLANK. By 

Niemann. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

21. — PARTED BY FATE. By Laura Jean 

Libbey. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

22. -THE FORSAKEN INN. By A. K. 

Green. Cloth, $1.50; paper, 50 cts. 

23. -0 T T I L I E ASTER’ S SILENCE. 

Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

24. — ED DA’S BIRTHRIGHT. ByMrs.Har- 

riet Lewis. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

25. — THE ALCHEMIST. By Honore De 

Balzac. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

20.— UNDER OATH. By Jean Kate Ludlum. 
Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

27. — COUSIN PONS. By Honore De Balzac. 

Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

28. — THE UNLOVED WIFE. By Mrs. 

Southwortli. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

29. — LILITH. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. South- 

worth. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

30. — REUNITED. By A Popular Southern 

Author. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

31. — MRS. HAROLD STAGG. By Robert 

Grant. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

32. — THE BREACH OF CUSTOM. From 

the German. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

33. — THE NORTHERN LIGHT. By E. 

Werner. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

34. — BERYL’S HUSBAND. By Mrs. Har- 

riet Lewis. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

35. — A LOVE MATCH. By Sylvanus 

Cobb, Jr. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

36. — A MATTER OF MILLIONS. By A. K. 

Green. Cloth, $1.50; paper, 50 cts. 

37. — EUGENIE GRANDET. By Honore 

De Balzac. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

38. — THE IMPROVISATORS. By Hans 

- - -- / ' / ' efl) «.~ 

39. — PAOLl. THE WARFiOi GSHOP, 

or The Full of rlio Cli. - ;';y \v 


40. — UNDER A CLOUD. By Jean Kate 

Ludlum. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

41. — WIFE AND WOMAN. From the Ger- 

man. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

42. — AN INSIGNIFICANT WOMAN. By 

W. Heimburg. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50c. 

43. — THE CARLETONS. By Robert Grant. 

Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

44. — MADEMOISELLE DESROCHES. By 

AudreTheuriet. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50c. 

45. — THE BEADS OF TASMER, By Mrs. 

Barr. Cloth, $1.25 ; paper, 50 cts. 

46. —JOHN WINTHROP’S DEFEAT. By 

Jean K. Ludlum. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50c. 

47. — LITTLE HEATHER - BLOSSOM. 

From the German. Cloth, $1 ; paper, 50c. 

48. — GLORIA. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. South- 

worth. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

49. — DAVID LINDSAY. A Sequel to Gloria. 

By Southworth. Cloth, $1 ; paper, 50c. 

50. -THE LITTLE COUNTESS. From the 

German. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

51. — THE CHAUTAUQUANS. By John 

Habberton. Cloth, $1.25; paper, 50 cts. 

52. — THE TWO HUSBANDS. By Mrs. 

Lewis. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper 50 cts. 

53. — MRS. BARR’S SHORT STORIES. 

Cloth, $1 .25 ; paper, 50 cts. 

54 - WE PARTED AT THE ALTAR. By 
Laura J. Libbey. Cloth. $1 ; paper, 50c. 
55- WAS SHE WIFE OR WIDOW? By 
Malcolm Bell. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. \ 

56. — THE COUNTRY DOCTOR. By Hou- 

ore De Balzac. Cloth, $1 .00 ; paper, 50 cts. ' 

57. — FLORA BEL’S LOVER. By Laura J 

Libbey. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

58. — LIDA CAMPBELL. By Jean Katu ’ 

Ludlum. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

59. — EDITH TREVOR’S SECRET. By 

Mrs. Lewis. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. \ 

60. — CECIL ROSSE. A Sequel to Edith 

Trevor’s Secret. By Mrs. Harriet Le^is. 
Cloth, $1.00 ; paper 50 cts., 

61-LOVE IS LORD OF ALL. From tne 
German. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

62. — TRUE DAUGHTER OF HARTEN- 

STEIN. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

63. — ZINA’S AWAKING. By Mrs. J. Ken. 

Spender. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

64 -MORRIS JULIAN’S WIFE. By Eliza- 
beth Olmis. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

65. — DEAR ELSIE, From the Germau. Cloth, 

$1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

66. — THE HUNGARIAN GIRL. From the 

German. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

67. — BEATRIX ROHAN. By Mrs. Harriet 

Lewis. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

68. — A SON OF OLD HARRY. By Albion 

W. Tourgee. Cloth, $1.50; paper, 50 cts. 

69. — ROMANCE OF TROUVILLE. Bv 

Meta De Vere from the French of Brehat. 
('loth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

70. — LIFE OF GENERAL JACKSON. Dy 

Oliver Dyer. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 56 cts. 

71. -THE RETURN OF THE O’MAIIONY. 

By Harold Frederic. Cloth, $1.50; paper, 
50 cts. 

72. — REUBEN FOREMAN, THE VIL- 

LAGE BLACKSMITH. By Darby 
Dale. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

73. — NEVA’S THREE LOVERS. By Mrs. 

Lewis. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

74. —“ EM.” By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southwortl,. 

Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

7n -EM’S TITTSRATVD. Bv Mrs. E. D. E. X 



FOR ALMOST HALF A CENTURY 

5 ' 

The Leading Family Weekly: 

THE 

NEW YORK LEDGER. 


FEATURES OF THE “LEDGER”: 

1. Carefully chosen serial stories, beautifully illustrated, with 
synopses of all preceding installments, new readers being thus 
enabled to begin at any issue. 

2. Short stories based on the most interesting current topics. 

3. Valuable historical articles. 

4. A delightful “Woman’s Page,” giving useful information 
regarding household questions. 

5. Short and crisp editorials on matters of the moment. 

6. Interesting popular descriptions of the latest wonders of 
science. 

7. A profusion of beautiful illustrations. 

A Four-Dollar Paper for Only TWO Dollars. 

FREE TO ALL SUBSCRIBERS: 

Our Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter and Fourth-of-July 
Numbers, with beautifully illuminated covers, will be sent without 
extra charge to all our subscribers. 


♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Subscription Price, $2.00 a Year. 

ADDRESS : 

Publishers NEW YORK LEDGER, 


NEW YORK CITY. 


A REMARKABLE NOVEL. 

ZINA'S AWAKING 

31 Nooel. 

BY MRS. J. KENT SPENDER, 

Author of “ Till Death Us do Part,” “ Gabrielle de Bourdaine ,” 
“ Mr. Nobody,” etc. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WARREN B. DAVIS. 

A 

12mo. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. Paper Cover, 

50 Cents. 


SOME OPINIONS OF THE ENGLISH PRESS: 

Liverpool Mercury. — “ In this noble story, Mrs. Spender takes 
her place in the front rank of living English novelists. Apart 
from the style, which is clear and beautiful, there is throughout 
the whole work a play of such intense sympathy with all that is 
noble in manhood and womanhood, and at the same time such a 
manifestation of self-conscious strength, that the conviction is 
irresistible that in this writer we have an author whose name will 
some day be a household word.” 

London Guardian. — “ Has undoubted merits of its own in the 
way of freshness and originality, and an unusual depth of thought 
and earnestness of purpose.” 

London Spectator. — “ Mrs. Spender is not a mere manufacturer 
of fiction for the libraries; she is an artist with a fine feeling for 
artistic ends, and a true instinct for the means by which they are 
to be attained.” 

Lotidon Standard. — “Mrs. Spender is well apace with the 
thoughts and reflections that bewilder the i advanced ’ young 
women of our day, and she writes with restraint and perception.” 

Scottish Leader. — “ Mrs. Spender can always be relied on to 
make her stories interesting. . . . ‘ Zina’s Awaking ’ is an 

eminently readable novel.” 

Freeinari's Journal. — “A literary work of art. . . . Un- 

doubtedly able and well written.” 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 













EM’S HUSBAND. 






























Works by 

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 

UNKNOWN. 12mo., 592 pages. 
Illustrated. Handsomely bound 
in cloth, price, $1.00. Paper 
cover, 50 cents. 

THE HIDDEN HAND. 12mo., 
600 pages. Illustrated. Hand- 
sornely bound in cloth, price, 

$1.00. Paper cover, 50 cents. 

NEAREST AND DEAREST. 12- 
mo., 572 pages. Illustrated. Hand- 

somely hound in cloth, price, 

$1.00. Paper cover, 50 cents. 

A LEAP IN THE DARK. 12mo., 
556 pages. Illustrated. Hand, 
somely hound in cloth, price, 

$1.00. Paper cover, 50 cents. 

THE LOST LADY OF LONE. 12- 
mo., 561 pages. Illustrated. Hand- 
somely hound in cloth, price, 
$1.00. Paper cover, 50 cents. 

FOR WOMAN’S LOVE. 12mo„ 
486 pages. Illustrated. Hand- 
somely hound in cloth, price, 
$1.00. Paper cover, 50 cents. 

THE UNLOVED WIFE. 12mo„ 
374 pages. Illustrated. Hand- 
somely hound in cloth, price, 
$1.00. Paper cover, 50 cents. 

LILITH. 12mo„ 399 pages. Illus- 
trated. Handsomely bound in 
cloth, price, $1.00. Paper cover, 
50 centi*. 

GLORIA. 12mo. Illustrated. Hand- 
somely bound in cloth, price, 
$1.00. Paper cover, 50 cents. 

DAVID LINDSAY: A Sequel to 
“Gloria.” 12mo. Ulus. Hand- 
somely hound in cloth, price, 
$1.00. Paper cover, 50 cents. 


EM’S HUSBAND. 


/ 


31 JConcl. 




I* 


BY 


MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH, 

u 

Author of “Unknown,” “The Hidden Hand,” “The Unloved 
Wife,” “Gloria,” “David Lindsay ,” etc., etc . 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. A. CARTER. 


> 

> > 


NEW YORK: 

ROBERT BONNER’S 


m?of* 

SONS, 


PUBLISHERS. 


THE LEDFER LIBRARY I ISSUED SEMI-MONTHLY. SUBSCRIPTION PRICE, TWELVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM. NO. 75, 
DECEMBER 15, 1892. *NTERED AT THE NEW YORK, N. Y., POST OFFICE AS SECOND CLASS MAIL MATTER. 


Em 

7 - 



Copyright, 1876 and 1892, 

BY ROBERT BONNER’S SONS. 


(All rights reserved.) 




•s 


S' 


* 








EM.’S HUSBAND. 


CHAPTER I. 

TO THE ISLAND. 

On the cliff-bounded stream ! 

When it is summer noon. 

And all the land is still. 

But on the water’s face 
The merry breeze is playing, 

Whitening a ripple here and there. 

H. Alford. 

HE pretty White Dove lay rocking at 
its moorings. It was gray on the 
outside and white within, and as 
clean and nice as any little boat 
need be. 

Old ’Sias handed his youngpassen- 
ger into it, and made her very com- 
fortable on a seat in the stern. 

Then he loosened the chain of the 
boat, spread the snowy sail to the 
breeze, took the tiller in his hand, and steered for 
the island. 

They had a beautiful run down the river. 



[ 7 ] 


8 


Em's Husband. 


The clear bosom of the water, reflecting the brilliant 
morning sky with its sunlit clouds, displayed all the 
blending rainbow hues of rose, violet, azure, gold and 
green. 

The shore on the right hand was a wide range of 
high, undulating, wooded hills, rising one behind the 
other, until their outlines were melted amid the vapors 
of the distant western horizon. 

The shore on the left hand was a wall of lofty, rug- 
ged, moss-studded cliffs, whose tops were lost among 
the clouds. 

Before them, down the river, lay the lovely isle, with 
its girdle of green trees, from the midst of which arose 
its velvety green hill, crowned with its airy palace, 
whose high, white walls and many crystal windows 
flashed and sparkled in the sunshine. 

“ Oh, how heavenly the country is !” exclaimed Em. 
“ I always thought it was beautiful, but I never dreamed 
it was so divine !” 

“ You come from the city, honey ?” inquired the old 
man. 

“Yes, but I never want to go back to it !” answered 
Em. 

“ Ay, ay ! I never was in a city in my life. Dey say 
how ‘ De Lord made de country and man made de town.’ 
Do yer think dat is true, honey ?” asked ’Sias. 

“Yes, I do" said Em., decidedly. “And if you could 
see a town, you’d think so, too.” 

“ Well, honey, I has libbed in dis yer sublunatic speer 
a hundred and fifty years, more or less , and nebber sot 
eyes on a city, nor likewise a town. But I libs in hopes 
to see one, or both, ’fore ebber I ’parts for de glory 
land,” said old ’Sias. 

Em. did not reply ; indeed she scarcely heard his 
words, as her whole attention was fixed upon the lovely 


To the Island. 


9 


isle, to whose shore they were now approaching so near, 
that the velvety green hill, crowned with its glittering 
white mansion, was slowly sinking out of sight behind 
the beautiful girdle of silver maple trees that encircled 
it like a halo of soft light. 

“ Here we is, honey,” said old ’Sias, as he drew down 
the little sail, and, taking an oar, pushed the boat up 
among a shoal of white water-lilies that surrounded the 
shore. 

Then ’Sias moved the White Dove to a water-post, and 
got out and offered his hand to his passenger, saying : 

“ Jump for it, honey, so as to clear de wet sand and 
light wid dry feet on de rock here.” 

Em. followed his direction and landed dry-shod. 

Then they picked their way over a bank of violets 
and pansies, snow-drops and other wild flowers, and 
then through a thicket of eglantines, sweet-briers, and 
wild roses, and honeysuckles, and next through a grove 
of acacias or flowering locusts, and finally through the 
belt of silver maples, and then up the verdant hill, 
that was beautifully laid off in groves of fragrant, flow- 
ering trees, adorned with statues, arbors, and fountains ; 
in parterres of the most brilliant and odoriferous shrubs 
and flowers ; and in green terraces, rising one above 
another, and reached by white stone steps, and leading 
quite up to the colonnaded porch of the glistening 
white mansion, with its many sparkling, crystal windows, 
and its balconies, verandas, and porches. Around the 
white columns that supported the piazzas were twined 
the most beautiful and fragrant rose-vines and climb- 
ing plants. 

It was a place of more than ideal beauty ; it was a 
home of paradisiacal loveliness. 

It was no dreamy solitude now, however. On the 
highest terrace in front of the house were seated about 


IO 


Eni.'s Husband. 


seventy persons, of both sexes and all ages, colors and 
conditions — a very small congregation, but making up 
in devout attention for what they lacked in numbers, as 
they listened silently, with up-turned, intent faces, to 
the preacher, who was concealed from the new-comers 
by an intervening, rose-wreathed column. 

“ I am afraid we are late,” whispered Em. 

“ Yes, honey, we is. The sermon is begun. We 
sha’n’t hear de tex’, ’less he repeats it, which he may ; 
but what we will hear will be wort’ cornin’ for, I tell 
yer. Hush, honey ; come ’long here. Here’s a good 
seat, and right good view ob de preacher, too.” 

Em. took the seat indicated, on the broad pedestal of 
a group of statuary, representing Faith, Hope and 
Charity, that stood on the second terrace. Her position 
was a little below the crowd, but gave her a plenty of 
space and a good view of the preacher. 

And that preacher ! How shall I be able to present 
him vividly before my readers — that blind orator of 
the wilderness, who labored among the few — the poor 
and the ignorant — but who ought to have had a world- 
wide field and fame. 

He stood on the highest step of the stairs, leading up 
to the colonnaded piazza, in front of the house, so 
facing his audience. He was a man of colossal stature, 
with the shoulders of Hercules and the beauty of 
Apollo. His face was of the pure Grecian type, and 
his countenance was full of intellect, majesty and ten- 
derness. The top of his head was high, spherical, and 
perfectly bald, but a fringe of golden hair at the back of 
his neck came around and almost touched the flow 
of golden beard that fell from chin to bosom. His eyes 
were blue, large, full, clear, and wonderfully brilliant 
and mobile ! He was dressed in a white linen coat 
and white duck trowsers, and wore white morocco slip- 


To the Island. 


1 1 


pers on his feet. He stood by a great white marble 
vase, from which an almond tree grew, and he rested 
his left hand upon the vase. That was the only 
support he had. 

With parted lips, suspended breath, and rapt atten- 
tion, Em. gazed on the stranger. She had never seen 
so god-like a man. That the magnificent form should 
have been struck with paralysis seemed incredible ; 
that those splendid, radiant, soaring eyes, with their 
flying glances and rapt gaze, should be blind, seemed 
impossible. 

Em. could scarcely believe it. 

“ I should think they had light enough within them to 
see in the dark ; that they would never need the sun, as 
we do,” she whispered, in awe-struck tones. 

“ That’s what we all say, honey. He has the light 
inside of his eyes. But he is stone blind for all that, 
honey.” 

“ Hush ! hush ! Let me hear him," said Em., as she 
bent her whole attention upon the preacher. 

He had evidently got well on in his sermon before 
the late arrival of these last comers. They had not 
heard his text, but they soon comprehended his subject. 
It was three-fold — 

Faith, Love, Works. 

I shall not risk spoiling the blind preacher’s sermon 
by attempting any report of it here. I will only say 
that in simple, eloquent words, which went directly to 
every heart, he explained to them — 

How Faith without Love was cold, and either, or 
both, without works, dead. How Faith and Love must 
go forth in good uses ; must go forth, through brain, 
heart, and hand, in good thoughts, good feelings, and 
good deeds to all. 

He told them, it was not enough we should cease to do 


12 


Em's Husband. 


ill to our neighbor, but we should cease to speak ill, or 
even to think ill of him. We should do good to him, or 
do nothing ; speak well of him, or be silent ; think the 
best of him, or not at all ; that thus, by the Lord’s help, 
we should come into the life of Faith, Hope, and Char- 
ity — the life of love to the Lord and the neighbor in 
which all men should live in this world, and in which all 
should wish to enter the world beyond. 

He told them the vast significance of this word, 
“neighbor;” how it had reached from the highest 
created being to the lowest ; how he who “ needlessly 
set foot upon a worm,” sinned in the same manner, if 
not in the same degree, as he who tortured or sacri- 
ficed a hero or a martyr. 

He begged them to take this truth home with them, 
that all might be the better and the happier for it. 

The sermon was followed by a fervent prayer, an in- 
spiring hymn, in which nearly all the congregation 
joined, and lastly, by the benediction. 

Em. saw the blind preacher raise his radiant fr'ce 
towards heaven to invoke the blessing, and she rev- 
erently bowed her head until he had ceased to speak. 

When she lifted it to look at him again, he had dis- 
appeared, and his hearers were dispersing. 

Em. turned inquiring eyes upon old Josias. 

“ He’s only dropped down in his chair, behind the 
rose-vines, honey. Dat’s allers de way. ’Pears like 
arter de benediction he gibs right out,” the old man ex- 
plained. 

“ And you tell me that man is blind ? ’Sias ! I can- 
not realize it ! Blind ! Why, ’Sias, how could he be 
blind, when, at several places in his sermon, that suited 
my case, he looked me right straight in the eyes, as if 
he pointed his words directly to me ? How could he 
know I sat there, unless he could see me ? How could 


To the Island , ’ 


13 


he see me unless he had sight, and very excellent sight, 
too r 

“ Honey, I don't know. Dat’s what ’stonishes us all ; 
for dat’s de way he looks at us all, right in our eyes, 
right into our hearts, too. I dunno how it is ! He is 
stone blind, dat is sartain sure, and yet he talks to yer 
wid his eyes as plain as anybody can speak ! Maybe, 
honey, his soul's eyes sees your soul ; for he told us in one 
of his sermons, how we was all souls that had bodies to 
live in ; and not bodies that had souls ; and how our 
souls were ourselves, and our bodies only our houses of 
flesh, our clothing, our instrument, that we were always 
using up and wearing out, and having to repair by eat- 
ing and drinking and breathing ; but how we our- 
selves never did wear out.” 

“ I should like to have heard that,” said Em., with a 
hungry look in her eyes. 

“ ’Nother time, honey, what do yer think he said ? It 
was a hard sayin’ for us poor sinners, now I tell yer ! 
He said the hardest resurrection was the resurrection 
of our souls out of de death of selfishness.” 

While the two had sat talking, all the rest of the 
rural congregation had separated and gone down by 
the various paths leading from the hill to the shores of 
the island, all around which, at various landings, their 
boats were moored. 

At length the old man arose and put on his hat, 
saying : 

“ Come, honey.” 

“Oh, Uncle ’Sias, don’t you think we might walk 
up these steps and walk around the beautiful rose- 
wreathed piazza, and see the lovely oriel windows and 
balconies ?” inquired Em., in a coaxing voice. 

“ Sartin sure, honey ! Come along !” replied the 
good-natured old fellow, leading the way. 


Em.'s Husband ' 


14 


Up they went to the elegant porch with its rows of 
white, stone pillars, wreathed around with climbing red 
and white roses, all in full bloom, on the outer side, and 
adorned with rows of crystal windows on the inner 
side. These windows had white shutters that closed 
within the house. 

Em. looked at these closed shutters with the curiosity 
and longing of Blue Beard’s wife when the latter con- 
templated the closed chamber. 

“ Would you like to see inside de house, honey ?” 
demanded the old man. 

“ Oh ! would I not ?” exclaimed Em. 

“ Well, den you can, honey ! De lady as owns it is 
the most free-hearted lady as ebber you seed ! She lets 
anybody walk ober and ober de island, and though and 
though de house — less she dere herse’f, honey — den, to 
be sure, she ’serves her private rooms. You sit down 
here, honey, at de front door and wait for me, and I’ll 
go round to de housekeeper’s room, which I knows her, 
and she’ll let you see de house, if she can, at my recom- 
mend.” 

“ Oh ! thank you, dear Uncle ’Sias. I will wait here 
joyfully until you come back,” eagerly exclaimed 
Emolyn, as she seated herself on the threshold of the 
front door. 

The old man went down the front and around to the 
rear of the premises, while Em., sitting on the threshold 
of this fairy palace, let her delighted eyes rove around 
over rose-wreathed pillars, vine-clad balconies, oriel 
windows, trellised terraces, flowery lawns, fountains, 
statues, lakelets, groves, and sparkling rivulets running 
down to the river. 

After a short absence the old man returned with a 
single key in his hand, saying, as he twirled it in his 
fingers : 


To the Island. 


15 


“ I can show you de hall and de grand saloon, honey, 
an de drawing rooms and library, which are all on dis 
floor at dis front ob de house ; but all de oder rooms 
are closed and can’t be shown.” 

“ Is the lady at home, then ?” inquired Em. 

“ No, honey.” 

“ Then why may we not see the whole of the house ?” 

“ I dunno, chile ; I didn’t ax her,” replied ’Sias, who 
was not so much interested in the mystery as was the 
young questioner. 

By this time he had slowly unlocked and opened the 
front door admitting them into the hall. 

This hall was circular in shape, spacious in size, and 
lofty in height, reaching from the inlaid white marble 
floor to the crystal dome that formed the roof, and 
lighted the whole scene. Around the polished, white 
walls of this fair circle were doorways, hung with cur- 
tains of blue silk and white lace, leading into many 
lovely rooms. 

The old guide beckoned Em. to follow him, and pull- 
ing aside the blue and white curtains of a doorway on 
his left, led the way into an oval-shaped saloon, with an 
oval window in front, and a semi-circular mirror exactly 
opposite in the rear. This mirror was so artistically 
contrived that it reflected all the varied island scenery 
from the oriel window, and gave the saloon the appear- 
ance of being open and illimitable in length. This 
beautiful room was furnished entirely in white and 
blue — the walls being of polished white panels that 
shone like porcelain, and having cornices of blue ; the 
side windows and doorways draped with blue silk and 
white lace ; the carpet white velvet bordered with blue; 
the chairs and sofas covered with white velvet trimmed 
with blue ; the stands and tables of pure white marble 
tops, supported on blue- veined marble pedestals ; the 


i6 


Em's Husband. 


statues and statuettes, both in groups and single pieces, 
all of Parian marble ; the jars and vases of blue Sevres 
china. And what was still more unique in its har- 
mony, the pictures that filled up all the spaces between 
the side doors and windows were framed in frosted 
silver plate, and the subjects were all of a bright, 
aerial, happy type — “Spring,” “Morning,” “Hope,” 
“ Youth.” 

Em., “ embarrassed with the riches ” of these beauties, 
gazed in delight upon the whole room, and then began 
to examine the pictures, pausing in a rapture of admir- 
ation before each. 

But, suddenly, in her progress, she started, uttered a 
slight cry, and stood perfectly still before a picture 
that hung between two lofty windows on the side of the 
saloon opposite to the door leading into the hall. 

It was the full-length portrait of a lady, tall, ele- 
gantly formed, gracefully posed, and clothed in white 
from head to foot ; a white satin robe that fell from her 
rounded bust to her feet and drifted about them in soft 
white clouds ; white satin hanging sleeves, open from 
the shoulders, and half revealing the shapely arms ; 
and over all, head, bust and waist, a large, flowing sil- 
ver gauze vail that fell to her feet, half concealing, half 
revealing the resplendent beauty of the head and face, 
with the bright, sun-gilded, auburn hair ; with the per- 
fect, chiseled Grecian features, the snow-white com- 
plexion, and large, mournful, blue eyes half hidden 
under their snowy, drooping lids. The back-ground of 
this form was a deep, cloudless, twilight sky. There 
was nothing else, nothing to divert attention from the 
beautiful, spiritual, mysterious form of the lady. 

Em. gazed upon it with breathless attention. It was 
not the spiritual beauty and mystery of this vailed fig- 
ure alone that fixed her gaze — it was the “ counterfeit 


To the Island \ 


*7 


presentment” of the moonlight apparition she had seen 
in the old hall ! 

“ Whose portrait is this ?” she demanded, in low, 
breathless tones of the old man, who had come to her 
side. 

“ I dunno, honey, ’less it’s de White Spirit’s. Seems 
like it might be, from all accounts of her,” replied ’Sias. 

Em. said no more, but remained gazing fixedly at the 
picture as she would not have dared to gaze at the ap- 
parition. 

Yes, it was the very same form ! the very same fea- 
tures ! the same sunlit, auburn tresses ! the same pure, 
clear-cut, alabaster profile ! the same large, drooping, 
blue eyes — even the same flowing silver gauze vail and 
white satin robe ! 

Em. shivered, half in terror, half in admiration, and 
felt for the moment as if she should lose her reason. 

Old ’Sias waited with exemplary patience, but as 
minute after minute passed and the young girl stood 
there as motionless as if she had “ taken root,” the old 
man thought proper, at last, to break the spell by say- 
ing : 

u Come, honey, it’s getting on to two o’clock. If yer 
want to see de drawing-rooms and de library and de 
boody, we’d better be a movin’.’^ 

“ No, I faill not look at anything else this morning,” 
said Em., with her eyes still fixed upon the picture. 

In his surprise, old ’Sias stared at the spell-bound 
girl, and then suddenly uttered a loud exclamation that 
startled even her. 

“ Why, what is the matter, Uncle ’Sias ?” she inquired, 
turning sharply around. 

“ Oh, my law, honey !” cried the old man, staring first 
at her and then at the picture. 

“ What is it, then ?” she repeated. 


i8 


Em's Husband. 


“ Oh, honey, de likeness ! de ’ strornary likeness /” ex- 
claimed the amazed old man. 

“ What likeness, Uncle ’Sias ?” inquired Em. 

u ’Twixt you and de picter, honey ! — ’twixt you and 
de picter ! Let alone de diffunce in de clo’s, de picter is 
de image ob yer, honey ! de same face, de same eyes, 
de same hair ! Well, law, I nebber did see such a like- 
ness ’twixt two in all de days ob my life !” 

“Is the picture so much like me ? How strange,” said 
Em., in perplexity, as she gazed at the portrait and 
tried to remember how her own face looked in the 
glass ; but could not do so. 

“ Like yer, honey ? Well, chile, I has libbed in dis yer 
sublunatic speer for a hund’ed and fifty year, more or 
less, honey, more or less, an’ I nebber see no sech a like- 
ness before, dere !” solemnly replied the old negro. 

“ It is very wonderful ! but everything about the pict- 
ure and — the lady, too — is wonderful,” said Em., as her 
mind reverted to the apparition of the night previous. 

“ Come, honey, I d’want to hurry yer ; but de time is 
gettin’ on, an’ Sereny — I promised of her to get back to 
dinner at two o’clock, honey, an’ Sereny do have sich a 
wiolent temper !” said old ’Sias, uneasily. 

“ Sereny ?” questioned Em. 

“ Yes, honey, Sereny ; that’s my wife, my second one, 
chile, not my fust one, as has passed away to de glory- 
land long ago, dough she wasn’t nuffin nigh as old as I 
was ; no, honey, Sereny is my young wife as I took las’ 
year to keep me warm in my ole age — accordin’ to King 
David and Abishey, honey, and true nuff, she do keep 
me warm — wid her temper and her tongue, let alone de 
broomstick and de hoe-helve, honey ! An’ ef I don’t 
get home by two o’clock, chile, I shall get hoe-helve 
’stead of hoe-cake for dinner, mine I tell you !” said the 
old man, sighing. 


To the Island. 


l 9 


“ Oh, let us hurry, then, and get back. I would not 
bring you into trouble for anything in this world ! But 
why do you let a young woman treat a man of your 
venerable age so disrespectfully and cruelly ?” exclaimed 
Em., as she turned to follow her conductor from the 
saloon. 

“ Well, dare’s jes’ where it is ! It’s 'cause ob my wen- 
erable ole age ! I’m de weakest — in de body, honey ! 
in de body ! not in de mine ! And she’s de strongest — 
in de body, honey ! in de body ! not in demine ! and so 
she gets de better ob me ! And serb me right, too, 
come to think ob it ! I had no business to take Sereny ! 
I wa’n’t no King David ! And she had no business to 
take me, which she did ’sake ob libbin’ in de purty gate- 
lodge, so much purtier dan de log cabins de odder col- 
ored folks lib in. But she keeps me warm — dat’s so — 
wid de broomstick and de hoe-helve ! But, patience ! it 
can’t las’ forebber, and some ob dese days I shall go to 
sleep down here an' wake up in de glory land, where 
my own ole ’oman is waitin’ for me,” concluded ’Sias, 
as he carefully locked the outside door ; and then he 
w 7 ent slowly down the steps and around to the rear of 
the premises to restore the key to the housekeeper. 

Em. remained standing where he had left her, with 
her eyes fixed upon the ground, in a deep reverie, which 
continued unbroken until the return of the old man, 
saying, as he came up : “ Now, den, hone)”, for de boat.” 

Em. followed him down through the terraced 
grounds, with their arbors, statues, fountains, parterres 
of flowers, groves and ponds, and then through the 
wood of silver maples, and the fragrant, blooming wood 
of acacias, to the sandy shore, where sat the little White 
Dove brooding on the waters. 

Em. entered the boat and seated herself in the stern. 


20 


Em's Husband. 


The old man followed her, hoisted the sail, and took 
the tiller in his hand. 

Leaving- the lovely island behind, he headed up 
stream, and steered for the Valley of the Wilderness. 
Now their course lay half way between the river 
shores, having the lofty, rugged, gray, rocky precipices 
on their right hand, and the beautiful, undulating green 
and wooded hills on their left. 

Their progress was a little slower up stream than it 
had been down, and so it was near three o’clock when, 
at length, they landed at the foot of the little, dilapi- 
dated pier belonging to the old boat-house of the Wil- 
derness. 

Old ’Sias secured his boat and followed Em., who 
was hurrying along the woodland walk that led from 
the landing through the forest to the park-gate. 

“ Yes, honey, it is late. Sereny’ll be wiolent, I tell 
yer !” said ’Sias, as he came up, quite breathlessly. 

Em. heard him, and wondered how she might save 
the poor old man from suffering at the hands of his 
Xantippe. 

At length, without stopping in her hurried walk, she 
unpinned a pretty new neck-tie that she wore on her 
white dress, smoothed out the folds and rolled it up, 
saying to herself : 

“ Bright blue ribbons must be rare luxuries of dress 
in this Wilderness, and if it does not mollify the temper 
of Madame Sereny, I do not know what will !” 

They reached the park gate at last and passed 
through. 

And there, sure enough, at the door of the lodge, 
stood the tall, handsome mulatto woman called, or 
rather mis- called, Serena. 

A heavy thunder-cloud was on her brow. 

Her little, old, black dwarf of a husband shrank 


The Agent. 


21 


behind Em., who walked smilingly up to the woman, 
saying, frankly : 

“ See what I have brought you, as a testimonial of 
my gratitude to your husband for taking me to the 
island to hear the blind preacher.” 

And with these words she placed the bright blue 
scarf in the woman’s hand. 

Serena smiled, showing all her large, white, regular 
ivories, and said : 

“ Thanky, Miss. How purty ! Dere ain’t sich a 
scaff in de whole county as dis ! ’Deed, I’m ebber so 
much obleeged to yer ! Won’t yer come in an’ res’ ?” 

“ No, I thank you. I have to hurry home to my 
father and mother,” said Em. 

“ Yes, honey, dat’s right, too ! Be dutiful to yer 
parients. Thanky agin, Miss ! And if ebber, so be, 
yer want my ’Sias to take yer a rowin’ or a sailin’, he’ll 
do it, or I’ll know the reason why he don't. Come in, 
’Sias, honey, yer dinner’s all ready for yer,” concluded 
Sereny, in a tone of such good will that the old man 
smilingly followed her into the lodge, while Em. 
hurried home, feeling that all was well. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE AGENT. 

A man in middle age. 

Busy, and hard to please. Taylor. 

“ Well, runaway ! Where have you been all the 
morning?” briskly inquired John Palmer, as he ran 
down the front steps to meet his favorite daughter, as 
she came up the heavily-shaded avenue. 


22 


Em's Husband. 


“ To a lovely island down the river, father, to hear a 
— heavenly minister !” exclaimed Em., with a burst of 
enthusiasm. 

And then, as they strolled leisurely on to the house, 
she gave him, after the manner of young girls, a rapid, 
impetuous, and graphic description of her morning’s 
adventures and discoveries. 

“An Edengarden and a White Spirit ! Wery fantas- 
tical names, Em. And, I reckon, just some of old ’Si’s 
yarns,” quietly observed John, as they entered the hall, 
where Susan and old Monica were busy setting the 
table and preparing the frugal dinner. 

“ Gracious, Em., you’ve been away all day, and if it 
had not been for that little black boy — Si’, he said his 
name was — a coming and telling me you had gone to a 
preaching with his grandfather, I shouldn’t a known 
what had become o’ you,” said Susan. 

“ But I wouldn’t have gone without sending you 
word, mother. And oh ! as soon as ever we get quiet I 
have got so much to tell you,” answered Em., as she 
took the loaf of bread out of the good woman’s hand 
and began to cut it in slices for the table. 

The hall at this hour presented a very pleasant scene, 
both the front and the back doors being open, and ad- 
mitting a free current of the fresh, summer air, laden 
with the fragrance of the wild woods which grew closely 
all around the house. 

From the midst of the hall arose that grand staircase 
with its lofty window at the top, forevermore mysteri- 
ous and memorable to Em., from the ghostly vision of 
the night before. 

Now, however, it looked a homely and familiar house- 
hold object enough, with the three little girls, Molly, 
Nelly and Venny running up and down its richly-car- 
peted steps, or sliding on the balustrades. 


The Agent . 


23 


Em. looked up at the high window and at such doors 
in the upper hall as came within the range of her sight, 
and, with a natural curiosity, wondered into what man- 
ner of places they led. 

‘•'Mother,” she at length inquired, “have you looked 
into any of the rooms above there ?” 

“ No, child, nor the rooms below, either. There 
hasn’t been a door opened anywhere except into this 
hall. It is Sunday, you know, and neither me nor your 
father believe in doing any more work than we can help 
on this day, even if we have just arrived at a strange 
place,” replied Susan Palmer. 

Em. fell into silent and self-reproachful thought, won- 
dering whether she had not committed a sin and broken 
the Sabbath by going to look at the lovely white palace 
on the island. 

“ Don’t you like to live here, Em.? Ain’t it jolly ? 
Ain’t this a splendid old hall ? I would like to stay here 
always, even if they didn’t give us any more of the 
house to live in than just this. Wouldn’t you ?*’ inquired 
her youngest brother, Tom, who had just come in with 
a pail of fresh water from the well. 

“ Oh, it’s bully ! It’s like a picnic or camp-meeting 
what Aunt Monica used to tell us about,” chimed in 
Ned, who was piling up a little heap of brush in 
a corner. 

“ I hope they’ll let us stay just here, where we can 
slide on the banisters all day long,” sung out little 
Nelly from her perch on the stairs. 

“Them children will break their necks! John, can't 
you make them come down and behave themselves ? 
They don’t mind me one bit !” cried out Mrs. Palmer, 
pausing in the midst of slicing cold ham. 

“ Lor', Susan, woman, young uns is like kittens and 
monkeys. It is their natur’ to climb. ‘ Sich is life ; ’ 


24 


Em's Husband. 


and it’s cruel to perwent ’em ; besides, these poor 
things never had a chance to climb in all their lives 
before.” 

“And now they’ll go it, you may depend ! They’ll 
be swarming up all these trees like bees before the 
week is out, if you encourage them so.” 

“ Well, I hope they will. It will do ’em good. * Sich 
is life,’” concluded aggravating John. 

All this time Em. had made no remark, but was 
silently putting the dinner on the table. It was a cold 
dinner of bread, butter, ham, pies and well-water ; for 
neither Susan nor John would have any cooking done on 
Sunday. 

“ I think I like this gypsy sort of life myself,” said 
John, as he began to drag the heavy, high-backed oaken 
chair from the wall up to the table. 

They were all about to sit down to dinner, when they 
were interrupted by the sudden entrance of a little, 
elderly, dark-skinned man, with snapping black eyes, a 
brisk manner, a quick step and a short tone. 

All the family started up. 

“ ‘ Sich is life,’ ” said John. 

“ Well-well-well !” the intruder exclaimed, running 
his words together in swift repetition. “ Well-well- 
well ! So here you are at last ! So here you are at 
last !” 

“Yes, sir,” said John Palmer, rising and saluting the 
stranger who had taken him so much by surprise. 
“ Yes, sir, we reached here all right. You are the 
agent of the property, I presume, sir — Mr. Comical ?” 

“ Chr-michael, man ! Chr-michael ! But what the 
deuce are you doing here in the grand hall ? Grand 
hall — grand hall — grand hall ! Eh-eh-eh ?” quickly 
demanded the brisk little man. 

“ Excuse us, sir. ‘ Sich is life.’ We are doing no 


The Agent. 


25 


harm. We reached here last night too late to do 
anything- more than to throw ourselves down here. 
This being the Sabbath-day, we could not make a 
change without breaking the commandment ; but to- 
morrow we will go into the quarters provided for us, if 
you will kindly direct us where they are,” said John. 

“ I see ! I see ! I see ! And meantime you are cook- 
ing your dinners on the very hearths where the old cav- 
alier lords of the manor used only to roast their own 
shins ! Well-well-well ! I suppose it can’t be helped for 
to-day — to-day — to-day !” replied the nervous little old 
man with rapid reiteration. 

“ You have likely had a long ride this morning, sir. 
Won’t you sit up and take some dinner ?” inquired John, 
politely. 

“I thank you! Yes-yes-yes! I believe I will! I 
believe I will !” said the agent, frankly, taking the chair 
that one of the boys vacated for him. 

“ That is my wife, sir,” said John, indicating the good 
woman at the head of the table. 

“ Yes-yes-yes ! So I should have supposed ! I hope 
you are very well, ma’ain !” exclaimed the quick visitor, 
and then, without waiting for an answer, he turned to 
his host, and pointing with his fork to Mrs. Whitlock, 
said : “And the other respectable old party, your 
mother-in-law ? mother-in-law ? mother-in-law ?” 

“ No, though she do lectur’ me to that extent, she 
might as well be,” laughed John, as he resumed his 
place at the foot of the table and helped his guest to 
ham. 

“Well-well-well !” said the agent, after he had taken 
the edge off his appetite with several slices of bread and 
ham. “Well-well! as your conscience will not per- 
mit you to move on Sunday, and as I can’t stay here 
till Monday, I’ll just indicate where you are to lodge 


26 


Em's Husband. 


yourself and family. It is in the rear of the manor- 
house. We call it The Red Wing.” 

“Yes, sir, I know exactly the place you mean. It is 
just under the shadow of the mountain and is built of 
a different colored stone from the rest of the house — a 
red stone.” 

“Yes-yes-yes ! Very fine specimen of old red sand- 
stone, while the main building is of blue limestone. 
You’ll do, you’ll do, you’ll do ! And now I will give 
you this paper, which contains full instructions as to 
your duties here, and I will leave it with you for refer- 
ence,” said the agent, handing over to John a very for- 
midable looking document, in a long, yellow envelope, 
tied with red tape. 

“I will study this to-morrow morning,” said Palmer, 
stowing it away in the breast pocket of his coat. 

“ I will rest here until the heat of the day is over, and 
then leave my horse here and take a fresh one and 
return-return-return,” said the agent, as they all arose 
from the table when the frugal meal was ended. 

Leaving the women to clear away the table, John 
Palmer and his guest walked down on the front lawn, 
if lawn that could be called which was so thickly cov- 
ered with trees as to be only the skirt of the deep for- 
est that lay between the house and the river. 

“You spoke about your horse. I hope he is taken 
care of, sir. If so it had a been that I had knowed 
when you first came, I’d a taken care of him myself,” 
said Palmer, apologetically. 

“Oh, don’t bother, don’t bother!” exclaimed the 
visitor, as he threw himself down at full length under 
one of the large shade trees, took a pipe and pouch of 
tobacco from his pocket, filled and lighted the pipe from 
a match, and began to smoke, continuing to talk between 
his whiffs. 


The Agent. 


27 


“ Bless you, man, I’m more at home here, more at 
home, more at home than you are. I just rode around 
to the stable, gave my horse to Seth, the head groom, 
and then walked on to the house. The horse belongs 
here. I have none of my own, none of my own ; but I 
have the privilege of using these, using these. I shall 
take a fresh one, a fresh one, a fresh one, when I go 
back. But, sit down, man, sit down, sit down. I want 
to talk to you about something else, and it tires me to 
see you standing.” 

John seated himself under the tree at some little dis- 
tance from the agent, who then, lowering his tone, 
inquired : 

“ Slept in the house last night, didn’t you ? Slept in 
the house, slept in the house ?” 

“Yes,” replied John. “ I told you so, you know.” 

“Yes-yes-yes-yes! So you did! Hem! See any- 
thing unusual ?” 

“ Sir,” inquired John, in a bewilderment. 

“ See anything unusual — unusual — unusual ?” rapidly 
reiterated the little man, fixing his keen black eyes on 
Palmer’s face. 

“ I beg pardon. I — I don’t understand,” said John. 

“Any disturbance in the night — any fright-fright- 
fright ?” 

“ Not in the least. But now that reminds me that 
the same question was asked by old ’Si, the gate-porter, 
this morning ! But I answered him as I answer you : 
nothing disturbed us. As far as I know, we all slept 
like tops — we always do. What should have disturbed 
us ?” 

“ Nothing-nothing-nothing ! Bats, mice, wind ! No- 
thing more, I verily believe ! But there are a lot 
of idiots who have got a story up about the old 
manor-house being haunted-haunted-haunted 1” 


28 


Em.'s Husband. 


“ Rubbish !” said John, with all the strong contempt 
of a practical man for the supernatural. 

“ So I say, so I say.” 

“ But I wish, for all that, no one would hint any sich 
a thing to the women and girls. It might trouble 
them. 4 Sich is life.’ ” 

“ No-no-no-no ! But even if such a rumor should 
reach their ears, it need not alarm them. It is only the 
old manor-house that the fools say is full of ghosts, 
ghosts, ghosts ! Not the wing, not the wing !” 

While the two men talked together, they perceived 
the slow approach of some figure through the trees, 
which soon revealed itself to be old 'Sias, the gate- 
keeper. 

44 Well, well, old man, what do you want ? What do 
you want?” demanded the agent, ill-pleased at the 
intrusion. 

“Nothing werry particular, marster ; only to pay my 
dispects to yer, sar, and I no more knowin’ as you was 
here till dat boy Seth told me ! I nebber was more 
s’prised in my life, no, not since I was a boy, and dat 
wa’n’t yes’day, marster ! Dat must a been a hundred 
and fifty year ago, more or less !” 

“ Humph-humph-humph ! To hear you talk, old 
man, one would think you might remember Noah’s 
flood,” said the agent. 

44 Well, no, marster, not quite : but / s’pects my 
granddaddy did ; ’caze I has heerd him 'scribe it, when 
he was a little boy,” gravely replied the old man. 

44 Yes-yes-yes. I see ! Mendacity comes to you 
quite legitimately, handed down from father to son,” 
said the agent. 

44 Yes, sar, so it do indeed, marster, sar, and few 
colored fam'lies is as much favored in dat ’spect as 


The Agent. 


29 


ours,” said old ’Sias, so innocently that the agent 
looked half ashamed of himself. 

To change the subject, as well as to utilize the old 
man, Mr. Carmichael said : 

“ Well, now that you are here, 'Sias, do me the favor 
to walk down to the stable and tell Seth to saddle 
Saladiii for me, and bring him around here.” 

“ Yes, marster, wid de greatest pleasure in life,” said 
’Sias, moving off. 

“ And here-here-here ! Come back here ! Here’s 
a dollar for a present to buy tobacco pipes with,” added 
Carmichael, thrusting the broad silver coin in his hand. 

“ Thanky, marster, a thousand times, and I hab the 
hoss round here for yer in no time. Tanks be to good- 
ness, Sereny don’t know nuffin ’tall ’bout my habbin’ ob 
dis money ! Aint me and her been in de way ob getting 
presents to-day ? She a sky-blue scarf, and me dis 
here dollar ! But dere ! I ain’t a gwine to let Sereny 
know nuffin ’tall ’about dis here dollar. ’Cause if I did 
— hush, honey ! — she’d dance a war-dance round me, 
and scalp de top o’ my head off but what she’d hab 
every blessed cent ob it,” muttered the old man to him- 
self, as he carefully stowed away his prize in the low- 
est recesses of his trowsers’ pocket, and hurried away 
down a little foot-path leading through the thicket in 
the direction of the stables. 

While waiting for his horse, the agent occupied the 
time in giving the new overseer some general informa- 
tion about the situation. He told Palmer that the 
Wilderness Manor had always been in the possession of 
the Elphine family ; but that the last male descendant 
of the race had suddenly left the house, on the marriage 
of his cousin, many, many years before, and had lived 
abroad ; that very lately he had died in Paris, unmarried 
and intestate, and the manor had fallen to the only 


30 


Em's Husband. 


daughter of that cousin whose marriage he had taken 
in such high dudgeon. 

He went on to say that this lady — whose confidential 
agent he, Peter Carmichael, was — had come in person to 
visit her new inheritance, and finding the old manor- 
house going to ruin from neglect, she had directed him 
to find a suitable family to take charge of it ; and that 
he had advertised and found the present family, with 
whom, he added, he was very well “ pleased-pleased- 
pleased. ” 

He concluded by saying that he was a lawyer by pro- 
fession and a bachelor by choice, and that he lived at 
the Red Deer Hotel in the town of Greyrock, about 
thirty miles down the river ; and that he rode up 
weekly to look after the estate, always changing horses 
when he went back. 

Then, as he saw the stable boy, Seth, coming up the 
narrow path and leading Saladin, he arose to take leave, 
requesting John Palmer to bid good-by to the family for 
him, and promising to ride over again on the ensuing 
Saturday. 

“ It’ll be ten o’clock before Mr. Comical gets home, 
and he’ll have to ride fast to do that,” said John, as he 
stepped into the large hall, which he found put in order 
for the night, with all the pallets spread. 

“ Has that funny old fellow gone ?” inquired Susan, 
as she arose from putting the last smoothing touches 
on the children’s bed. 

fi Yes, and he asked me to bid you all good-by for 
him.” 

“ Well, now all is done here, we’ll go out and sit un- 
der the trees, and I hope this is the very last night we 
shall have to sleep in the hall. It is a perfectly savage 
way of living!” 

Oh ! I think it’s just nice !" 


The Agent. 


3 * 


“ It’s real jolly !” 

“ It’s first-rate fun !” 

“ I’d rather live this way than any way !” 

Such was the chorus of exclamations from the chil- 
dren that answered their mother’s remarks. 

“ Difference of opinion ; but ‘ sich is life,’ ” said John. 

u Do hush your noise, Palmer ! You distract me with 
your clatter !” scolded Susan, as she hurried the chil- 
dren out of the house. 

“ I wasn’t making- the least bit. She and the young 
uns was making it all, and I get the blame : ‘ sich is 
life,’ ” said John, as he followed them out. 

But there was no malice in Susan Palmer’s hasty 
speeches, and her husband knew it well. 

All was harmony in the family circle as they sat un- 
der the trees, John smoking his white clay pipe, and the 
children amusing themselves with picking the grass- 
flowers that grew thickly around them. 

“ Is this country enough for you, Em.?” inquired John 
Palmer for the second time, as he looked at his daugh- 
ter, who was sitting on the ground with her hands 
clasped around her knees, and with her eyes fixed upon 
the forest, through whose waving branches, glimmering 
here and there, could be caught glimpses of the distant 
river. 

“ Oh, father, it is almost divine ! I sometimes wonder 
if we are not all dead and in Paradise together. May- 
be we were all suffocated in our burning house that 
night, you know, and have come to life in Paradise !” 
dreamily replied the girl. 

“ Em., hush ! you’re crazy !” broke in Susan Palmer. 

“ Well, mother, anyway we are dead to the old life in 
Laundry Lane, and are risen to this,” said Em., smiling. 

“ That's what she means, Susan. Law, I understood 
the girl !” said Palmer, heartily. 


32 


Em. y s Hush a nd. 


“Oh, yes! I dessay you do, John, and you encour- 
age her in her flights just as 3 r ou do the little ones in 
their climbing. The end of which will be you will have 
a crazy girl and three or four cripple children !” chimed 
in Ann Whitlock. 

“ No wonder Mr. Comical took her for my mother- 
in-law !” muttered John to himself. “ And now I come 
to think of it, it is all providential — having no mother- 
in-law of my own, Mrs. Whitlock fell right into the 
place to fill up the wacancy ! ‘ Sich is life !’ *’ laughed 

John to himself. 

They sat out under the trees until their early bed- 
time, and then they all returned to the house. The 
women and children entered first and retired, and then 
the man and the boys. 

Em., not wishing a repetition of her last night’s ex- 
perience, had made her pallet in the rear of the grand 
staircase, and close by the back door, which was left 
wide open for air. 

As usual with this hard-working and healthy family, 
as soon as their heads dropped upon their pillows they 
fell fast asleep. 

Even Em. — who would have kept her eyes open if 
she could, for the pleasure of looking out from her pal- 
let through the open door, upon the waving trees, the 
grey rocks beyond and the starlit sky above, soon suc- 
cumbed to fatigue and slept soundly. 

The vigils of the last night and the exertions of the 
past day had completely exhausted the girl, and pro- 
duced a prolonged sleep of many hours. 

It must have been very near day when at last she 
calmly opened her eyes. 

The moon was shining over the top of the mountain 
and down through the waving trees, and making their 


The Agent. 


33 


shadows dance upon the floor of the hall and on the 
white quilt of Em.’s pallet 

All else was still in the place. 

“ This is beautiful, beautiful,” said the girl, watching 
the graceful shadows of the leaves dance and fly over 
her outspread hands. She knew the moon was also 
shining through the lofty window at the head of the 
stairs, and flooding the stairway and front hall with 
light, where she had seen the radiant vision of the 
night. She felt glad that she had moved her pallet, for 
she thought that visions would not be likely to appear 
anywhere else except in that splendor of light. 

Hush ! What was that ? 

Her ears had caught the sound of a soft foot-fall ap- 
proaching, accompanied by the slight swish of a trailing 
garment along the floor. The sound drew nearer. 

Horror of horrors ! What is this? 

No radiant form of light now ! but a demon of dark- 
ness from the pit ! a tall figure shrouded in black from 
head to foot, with a muffled face of which nothing 
could be seen but a pair of fierce, dark eyes that seemed 
to shine and gleam by their own fires ! 

Em.’s blood curdled in her heart ; she tried to cry 
out ! to spring up ! to fly for her life ! but she could 
neither move, speak, nor breathe ! 

The terrible form drew nearer, stood beside her pal- 
let, stooped over her. 

That was too much, and the girl swooned with horror. 



CHAPTER III. 

THE RED WING. 

Face to face with the true mountains, 

Standing silently and still, 

Drawing strength from fancy’s dauntings, 

From the air about the hill, 

And from nature’s open mercies, 

And most debonair good will. 

E. B. Browning. 

When Em. recovered her consciousness it was broad 
daylight, and the old hall and the woods around it were 
full of the jubilant sounds of awakening life. 

John and his two boys had slipped out to wash and 
dress themselves in the back premises, leaving the hall 
to the sole possession of the women and girls. 

Em. instantly recollected her frightful vision of the 
night ; but, true to her resolution of silence on the sub- 
ject of the haunted house, she refrained from speaking 
of it, while she inwardly thanked Heaven that she had 
passed her very last night in the ghostly hall. 

She arose with alacrity, rolled up her pallet, and put 
it out of the way, dressed herself and began to assist 
her mother in clearing up the hall for breakfast. 
It was a lively scene, like the general getting up in the 
morning from the cabin of a steamboat. 

“ Why, my girl, you overdid yourself yesterday, you 
did ! You look as pale as a ghost this morning ! Just 
[ 34 ] 


35 


The Red Wing. 

o 


go and sit down in that arm-chair, and don’t attempt to 
do a hand’s turn to day,” said Susan Palmer, on seeing 
her daughter’s pallid countenance and languid air. 

But Em. declared that she was able to work, and 
begged to be allowed to do her share. 

The hall was quickly set in order. John and the boys 
brought in wood and water ; old Monica kindled the 
fire ; Mrs. Whitlock filled the kettle ; Susan Palmer 
set the table ; and Em. cut the bread and meat. 

As “many hands make labor light,” the breakfast 
was soon prepared, and, with the keen appetite be- 
stowed by the pure mountain air, it was soon consumed. 

As they were about to rise from the table, a shadow 
crossed the front door, and the odd little figure of the 
old gate-keeper entered the hall, and in such a plight 
that his appearance was greeted with a general exclam- 
ation from the company present ; but before any one 
could ask a question the old man walked up to the 
new overseer and said meekly : 

“ If yer please, Marster John, Mr. Comical, as he 
passed out de gate yes’day, tole me to come up here dis 
mornin’, and help yer to get righted, and show you 
trough de Red Wing, case you couldn’t find your own 
way.” 

“Thank you, ’Si ; your help will be very acceptable. 
But, man alive, what’s happened to you ?” inquired 
John, gazing with surprise and pity on the battered 
veteran who stood there with his clothes torn to ribbons, 
his eye black, his nose swelled, and his scalp bleeding 
from where a lock of hair had been pulled out by the 
roots. 

“ He looks as if he had been blowed up by a steam- 
boiler !” said Tom. 

“ Or run over by a locomotive,” added Ned. 

“ He looks to me more as if he had had an interview 


Em's Husband. 


3 ^ 


with a wild cat,” suggested Em., half in pity, half in 
humor. 

“ But what on earth is the matter With you, man ?” 
repeated John. 

“ Well, yer see, marster, Sereny has been performin’ 
on me,” quietly replied ’Sias. 

“What?” demanded John. 

“ Sereny has been performin’ on me, sar. Dancin’ of 
a war-dance over me, marster ; it is Sereny ’s little way 
she has, Marster John. Only, dis time ’pears like she 
has scalp’ me worse ’an I ebber was scalp’ since I was a 
boy, and dat was a hundred and fifty years ago, mars- 
ter, more or less, more or less, sar.” 

“ But who the mischief is Sereny ?” 

“ My young wife, marster ; dat young yaller gal yer 
might see at de gate-house any time passing,” meekly 
replied old ’Sias. 

“But what on earth did she abuse you for ?” de- 
manded John. 

“ Marster, yer know dat dollar yer see Mr. Comical 
gib me ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, marster, dat Sereny hab got a nose like a rat- 
terrier for smellin’ out things. Jes’ ’cause Mr. Comical 
come on a visit to de place, and I went up to pay my 
dispects to him, Sereny suspicioned him gibbin’ me 
money, an’ soon’s ever he was gone, she up an’ ’cuse me 
ob it to my face, an’ tell me to ’liber dat money up to 
my lawful wife. I didn’t want to gib all dat money, 
’cause I knowed she’d heabe it all away on finery, an’ 
sich trash, first chance she got, so I wouldn’t ’fess as I 
had any. An’ den she tried to sarch me, an’ I ’sisted 
her, an’ den she began to perform on me, an’ dance a 
war-dance round me, an’ tomahawk, an’ scalp me, an’ 


The Red Wing. 


37 


bein’ so much younger’n stronger’n I am, she got the 
better o’ me an’ took all my money — ” 

“ And left you in this condition ?” 

“ Yes, sar ; which it’s a little way Sereny’s had ebber 
since I married of her.” 

“ But what in the world tempted an old man like you 
to take a young wife ?” 

“ Yes, sar ; dat’s jis’ where it is. In de old ages of 
my pilgrimage I did take a young gal for a wife, accord- 
ing to King David and Abishey, to keep me warm in 
my old days — which warm she do keep me, sir, as yer 
may see for yerself, my head is all of an infatuation 
now wid de warmin’ up she gib me yes’day. An’ I offen 
do wonder to myself, thinking of my own thoughts in- 
side of myself, how was dat de way young Abishey kept 
ole king David warm — wid de broomstick an’ de hoe 
handle, let alone sometimes de shovel and de tongs 
also,” said the old man, in reflective tone. 

“ Well, I never heard that preached on, as ever I can 
remember ; but now you put it to me, I should not won- 
der if it was so ; for ‘ sich is life,’ you see,” gravely re- 
plied John. And then, after a few moments of quiet 
thought, he added : 

“ But, ’Si, this catamount of yours shall not be let to 
clapper-claw your body off your soul ! I’ll see to it, 
’Sias ! I’ll see to it !” 

“ Now, Marse John, don’t yer do no sich a thing. 
Don’t yer go interferin’ ’tween man an’ wife, ’tain’t no 
good ! I don’t want no white man to interfere ’tween 
me an’ Sereny, an’ any colored ge’man try to do it — well 
dere ! Sereny’d settle him! Now, Marse John, I is ready 
for any sarvice as yer would like to have me to do, an' 
able for it, too ! Dese here woun’s and bruzes is all on 
the outside, an’ looks worse dan dey feels. To be sure 
de head is de worse, for it do feel mighty hot ; but den 


38 


Eni'.s Husband. 


it is also mighty hard. I was born wid a hard head, 
marster, so dey used to tell me, an’ it’s been gettin’ 
harder an’ harder ebery year all my life, for a hund’ed 
and fifty year, more or less, marster ; till now it’s done 
got dat hard as it can stan’ even Sereny’s broomstick 
and hoe handle. So now I is ready for yer, marster,” 
cheerfully concluded this war-worn veteran. 

John Palmer had taken out his paper of instructions 
and was reading them. 

“ Here we are,” he exclaimed, folding up and replac- 
ing the document in his pocket. “ Here is our first 
duty, in the first line, to open and air the house from 
garret to cellar, to build small wood fires in every 
chimney, to burn out the cobwebs and dry the damp- 
ness ; afterwards to take time and thoroughly clean the 
house. Well ! the opening and airing and fire-kindling 
will be enough to begin with to-day. It will take us 
until noon, and then we must move into our own quar- 
ters in the Red Wing. Now, then, suppose we begin 
with the rooms on this floor ? What do you say, 
Susan ?” 

“Certainly, John — unlock the doors ! We are every 
one of us aching to see the closed parlors,” eagerly an- 
swered the woman. 

John gave the big bunch of keys to old ’Sias, saying : 

“As you know the locks better than I do, you must 
unlock the doors for us.” 

The old man selected a key, fitted it, and opened a 
door on the right hand and admitted the whole party 
to a long, dark, sombre drawing-room, whose close air 
and musty smell immediately drove the women and 
children back into the hall, leaving only John and 
old ’Sias to enter together. 

“We’ll soon alter this, ’Si,” said Palmer, as he went 
to one of the front windows, threw up the sash, and 


with some effort, withdrew the rusty bolts and opened 
the heavy shutters. 

Old ’Sias had meanwhile pushed back the sliding 
doors across the middle of the room and was now per- 
forming the same service at the back windows. 

And soon floods of light and currents of air poured 
into the long-disused apartment. 

“ This must have been the ball-room, from its size,” 
said John, staring down the long saloon that reached 
the whole length from front to back of the house. 

“Well, sar, it were mostly used for company and 
parties.” 

“ You can come in now, Susan ; the air is good 
enough.” 

The whole troop poured into the room, and began 
to walk about and stare with wide open eyes. 

The waxed oaken floor had no carpet, or a carpet of 
thick dust only. The dark, oak-paneled walls were 
decorated with a few fine pictures, one of which imme- 
diately attracted the attention of Em. It hung in a very 
rich and very dusty gilt frame, between the two front 
windows, and it reached from the floor to the ceiling. 

It was the full length, life size portrait of a lady in the 
costume of the time of Queen Elizabeth — a bright blue 
satin dress, richly embroidered with silver thread, and 
lavishly trimmed with lace and decked with gems. It 
was made with the long, tight waist, full, short, puffed 
sleeves, and high, standing ruff of the period. 

The hair was dressed in large masses of ringlets on 
each temple, and surmounted by a close cap of bright 
blue velvet, embroidered with silver, edged with a row 
of large pearls, and brought down to a peak on the top 
of the forehead, and widened out in loops over each 
mass of curls upon the temples. A mantle of ermine 
drooped from the graceful shoulders, leaving bare the 


40 


Em's Husband . 


beautiful neck, framed in with its high standing ruff, 
and adorned with a necklace of many rows of pearls. 
Long ear-drops and broad bracelets of pearls completed 
the set. The background of the picture was the cush- 
ioned steps and canopied chair of a throne, and gleam- 
ing and glowing with crimson velvet and gold. 

It was a very gorgeous and brilliant picture, full of 
light and color. But it was not the rich dress, splendid 
jewels, or royal surroundings of the court lady that held 
the eyes of the spellbound girl — it was the lovely face ! 
the same in its delicate outlines, fair, spirituelle beauty, 
clear blue eyes, and sunny hair — the very same with 
that of the white-veiled picture she had seen in the 
palace on the island. 

But how different the costume and surroundings ! 
One, adorned with the most superb robes and splendid 
jewels in the magnificent court of Elizabeth. 

The other, arrayed from vailed head to hidden feet in 
spotless white, with nothing but clouds for a back- 
ground, might have been a spirit or a woman of any 
time or country. 

Yet the faces were the same. 

“Uncle ’Sias,” whispered Em., “can you tell me 
whose portrait this is ?” 

“ Yes, honey, dat’s one ob de aunt-sisteresses ob de 
ole family,” answered the gate-keeper. 

“ The what ? The aunt-sis — Oh ! do you mean ances- 
tress ?” inquired the puzzled girl. 

“ Yes, honey, aunt-sisteress. She were a great lady 
in her time, but it was a long, long time ago, more ’an 
a hund’ed and fifty years ago, I reckon.” 

“ Oh, yes ! the costume of the lady shows the picture 
must be three hundred years old, and must have been 
brought from England in the earliest settlement of this 
country.” 


“Very likely, honey! Any way, she were a great 
lady. Lady — less see now — what’s dat dey did call dat 
pictur ? Lady Em-Emmer-Emmerlint !” 

“ ‘ Emolyn !’ ” exclaimed our girl, turning and look- 
ing full upon the speaker. 

*' Yes, honey ! dat was it ! Emmerlint ! Lady Em- 
merlint, dey called her ! And now I looks at dat pictur 
right good, oh, my gracious me alibe, honey !” cried the 
old man, staring at the picture and then staring at Em. 

“ Why, what’s the matter now V' 

“ De likeness, honey ! De mos’ ’strorna’ry likeness !” 

“ Oh,’’ exclaimed Em., suddenly, “ I remember that 
you said that the portrait that you saw in the island 
palace was like me too.” 

“ So I did, honey. Bofe is like you and like each 
oder, dough I nebber would o’ noticed it if you hadn’t 
been by. Well, it is de mos’ ’strornary fing as ebber I 
seed since I was a boy, and dat was a hundred and 
fifty years ago, more or less, honey.” 

At this moment John Palmer called old ’Sias to attend 
him through the other rooms. 

The whole party then left the long drawing-room, 
crossed the hall, and went into the south wing, which was 
made up on this floor of family parlor, library, sitting- 
room, dining-room, and conservatory — all except the lat- 
ter having paneled oak walls and polished oak floors, and 
being furnished with the heavy, highly ornate tables, 
chairs, escritoires, screens, and sofas of a past century. 

Having thrown open all the windows in this wing, 
the party proceeded up the great staircase, followed by 
old ’Sias, who, on the landing, passed the others and un- 
locked the chamber doors, and opened the windows. 
Here were long suits of bed-rooms and dressing-rooms, 
all with the darkly polished oak floors and the oak pan- 
eled walls, and heavy, black walnut, four-post bedsteads, 


42 


Em! s Husband. 


with lofty canopies ; and broad walnut presses, with 
innumerable drawers and cupboards ; deep, high- 
backed, softly-cushioned, easy chairs ; high, semi-circu- 
lar, curtained toilet tables, curious, old-fashioned china 
ewers and basins, and many other things, interesting 
from their oddity or antiquity. But everything was 
covered with dust, vailed with cobwebs, and redolent of 
must and mice. 

Indeed, often, on opening a door, the intruder would 
be startled by the rapid scuttling away of rats or mice, 
and sometimes, near a chimney, by the flitting out 
of a bat. 

“ They are the ghosts that haunt the house, I reckon, 
’Sias,” said John Palmer, in a low voice to the old 
guide. 

’Sias shook his solemn old head and said nothing. 

Em. overheard the remark, and shuddered. She 
remembered the radiant apparition of the first night, 
and the horrible spectre of the last, and to her the 
whole of these vast, dark, dreary rooms wore a ghostly 
aspect. 

They visited the attic and the back buildings. 

And then, while the women and girls returned to the 
hall to prepare dinner, John, old ’Sias, and the boys 
brought light wood and kindled little fires in all the 
chimneys to dry the rooms and destroy the must. 

“ And, now,” said Palmer, “ we’ll get a bite of dinner 
and then go into our new home.” 

“ Yes, marster,” replied old ’Sias ; “ which I hope, 
sar, you’ll find to yer satisfaction.” 



CHAPTER IV. 

RED WING. 

A rude dwelling, built by whom or when. 

None of the ancient mountain people knew. 

Scott. 

Red Wing- was a misnomer, since it was not really a 
wing, but a separate building, on the northeast corner 
[of the manor-house and much older than the old hall. 

Tradition said that it had been erected by the Elphines 
immediately after their arrival at the Wilderness, and 
had been their dwelling for some years before the more 
imposing edifice had been raised. 

Subsequently it had been used as kitchen, scullery, 
laundry, and servants’ hall and lodging. 

But since the self-expatriation of the last of the 
Elphines, the Red Wing, like the Old Hall, had been 
shut up and deserted. 

Now it was to be opened to accommodate the new 
overseer and his family. 

All this was explained to John Palmer by old ’Sias, 
as he led the way to the house, followed by the whole 
party. 

They left the hall by the back door, and passing 
through the back yard, curned to the left, where, nearly 
hidden by high trees, and immediately under the 
shadow of the rocky precipice, stood the old Red Wing. 

M 


44 


E m. ' s Husband. 


’Sias, going before, opened the door, entered and 
threw open all the windows to the light and air, and 
great need there was to do this, for the old Red Wing 
was pervaded by a heavier fixed air, and a deeper 
dampness, and a stronger smell of mould than had hung 
about the closed manor-house. 

This building was of two stories, with cellar and attic. 
There were four rooms on each floor, with a passage 
running from front to back between them. 

The rooms were large, with low ceilings, broad, low 
windows and very wide fireplaces. They were filled up 
with the oldest fashioned furniture, much of it rickety, 
and worm-eaten — all of it covered with dust and mould. 

John, old ’Sias and the boys bestirred themselves 
briskly, brought pine cones, dried brush, and other com- 
bustibles, and quickly built fires in all the chimneys. 

“Now, Marse John,” said old ’Sias, “ as I’ve ’stalled 
you inter yer new house I’ll be going. It’s mos’ Ser- 
eny’s tea time, and I couldn’t stand another scalping.” 

“ Very well, old man, go. You have done quite work 
enough to-day for one of your age,” said John, kindly. 

“ We've got work enough for a week to come, cleaning 
up the old place,” exclaimed Susan Palmer, when ’Sias 
had disappeared. 

“ Never mind, mother. There are ten of us to do it, 
and we shall soon get through ; and oh, think what a 
lovely, roomy old house this is ; and how beautiful out- 
side. The trees overshadow the roof, and from the 
back windows you can almost stretch out your hand 
and touch the rocky precipice,” said Em., brightly. 

“ Let’s see, now,” said John, looking around himself. 
“ There are four rooms on this floor. This one we are 
in is the kitchen, in course ; and well supplied it is with 
cupboards and dressers. The room next to this must 
be your bedroom, Susan, my dear, because it will be 


45 


convenient to the kitchen, and, besides, it will save 
your back, running up and down stairs. Across the 
passage is two rooms — the front one, opposite your bed- 
room, must be for the parlor, and the back one, opposite 
this kitchen, for our family room. How rich we are in 
space, Susan. Plenty of space and air for all the 
family. What a blessing ! Well, and now the four 
rooms up stairs. Em., you shall take your choice there, 
and have a room all to yourself.” 

“ Oh, father, if I might choose, and mother pleases, I 
would like to have the attic. It is all one great room, 
running from front to back, you know, and I don’t mind 
climbing.” 

“ Very well, then your mother must sort the four 
chambers up stairs among the children and the two old 
women as she sees fit. Now, who in the world is this ?” 
exclaimed John, as a little, old colored woman, who 
looked like ’Sias in petticoats, entered the kitchen. 

“ Ebenin’, mist’ess, ebenin’, marster, ebenin’, young 
uns. Hopes you’ll ’scuse me. I jus’ come to look in on 
y’ all, to see how you’re gettin’ ’long.” 

“ You are quite welcome. Take a seat,” said John. 

“ Who are you, and what is your name ?” inquired 
Susan. 

“ I’m yer Uncle ’Sias’s onliest sister, Aunt Sally, yer 
know, honey. Yes, honey, Aunt Sally; that’s my name. 
I only come to see yer all outen good will, honey. I 
don’t mean no harm, honey ; I never does mean no 
harm. I never does nothin’ to nobody,” meekly ex- 
plained the little, old woman, as she sank into an old- 
fashioned stuffed easy-chair that Em. placed for her. 

“ You are ’Sias’s sister ?” inquired Susan. 

“ Yes, honey, Uncle ’Sias’s sister, honey ; Aunt Sally. 
But you needn’t be feared of me, honey. I never does 
nothin’ to nobody.” 


46 


Em.'s Husband. 


“You don’t look so old as ’Sias,” said John, scrutiniz- 
ing the little, old woman. 

“ Yes, marster, you’re right, honey. ’Sias do look old 
since he married that young gal, Sereny. But he don’t 
mean no harm, honey. He never does nothin* to 
nobody.” 

“ ’Sias says he’s a hundred and fifty years old, ‘ more 
or less,’ ” laughed Em. 

“ I know ’Sias do say that. I don’t know what make 
him say that. ’Sias ain’t no more’n eighty-five. That’s 
my age, and we is twins.” 

“ You and ’Sias twins ?” exclaimed Susan. 

“Yes, honey ; that’s what makes us bofe so little, I 
reckon ; but we don’t mean no harm by it. We nebber 
does nothin’ to nobody ; me and ’Sias don't.” 

“ I’m sure you don’t. Be satisfied. We are not dis- 
posed to think evil of you,” said John. 

“ I do thank you for that ’pinion, marster ; an’ it a 
true one ; ’cause we nebber does nothin’ to nobody. 
An’ now I’ll go. Ebenin’, sar ; ebenin’, ma’am ; ebenin’, 
young people. I’s gwine now.” 

And with these last words the queer, little, old woman 
took leave and went away. 

The strong, industrious, and hard-working Palmers, 
toiling together, soon got their pleasant house in per- 
fect order. And then they began to realize how, with- 
out actually possessing wealth, they had come into all 
the practical enjoyment of it. 

John’s duty was very light — it was only to look after 
the plantation ; but not to take any part in the hard 
labor. Susan’s office was still lighter — to look after 
the women servants, and see that the manor-house was 
kept clean and well aired, and that all the work in their 
department was well done. 

In compensation the Palmers had the free use of the 


Red Wing. 


47 


comfortable house, six hundred dollars a year, and all 
the family provisions from the plantation that the 
household might require ; and lastly, the privilege of 
“exercising” the horses in the stable, either under 
the saddle or before one of the rather dilapidated old 
carriages. 

The granaries supplied them with abundance of 
breadstuffs ; the dairies with milk, cream and butter ; 
the barnyard with poultry ; the droves of cattle and 
flocks of sheep with meat ; the river below them with 
fish ; the garden with vegetables ; the orchard with 
fruit, and the bee-hives with honey ; for, although the 
manor-house had been utterly neglected, the farms and 
stock had been tolerably well kept up by the negroes, 
under the occasional supervision of the agent. 

Besides all this, John and Susan had the privilege of 
selecting two servants, a man and a woman, from the 
plantation for their own family service — a privilege 
which they had not as yet availed themselves of, having 
help enough within their own household. 

There were so many hands, indeed, that all their 
work was quietly and easily done, leaving them much 
leisure for rest and recreation. 

John Palmer took the women and children in the 
capacious old carry-all for long drives along the banks 
of the river, or through the forest. 

Em. and the two boys learned to ride so well 
that they could always attend the carry-all on horse- 
back. 

Em. usually rode a little, silver-gray horse, which 
was her favorite because it united the rare qualities of 
swiftness, gentleness, and spirit, and which she named 
Pearl. She liked, on a fine summer afternoon, to ride 
beside the carriage in going through the forest, or 
along the river banks, and to listen or reply to the 


48 


Em's Husband. 


happy chatter of the delighted children ; but she liked 
even more than that to mount her little horse and go 
for a solitary ride on the mountain, to explore narrow, 
hidden, and forgotten paths, to startle the deer from its 
leafy couch, or the eagle, screaming, from its dizzy 
perch ; to find new Edens of light and beauty, and 
even new Hades of gloom and grandeur. 

Em. enjoyed this life in the Wilderness more than 
any other member of the family did, though they were 
all happier than they had ever been before. 

There was, indeed, but one cloud on the sunshine of 
their lives — they missed the pleasure of attending Di- 
vine service on Sundays. 

There was no church within thirty miles of the 
manor-house. 

Certainly, by getting up at four o’clock on Sunday 
mornings, and harnessing two of the strongest draught 
horses to the largest carry-all, John might have taken 
his family to Greyrock Chapel, in time for the morning 
service, at eleven o’clock, but that he had conscientious 
scruples on the subject. He was a simple and literal 
interpreter of the commandment, and he held that beasts 
of burden had as much right to their Sabbath-rest as 
mankind, and that to make them work, by dragging 
Christians to church, was the inconsistency of worship- 
ing the Lord by disobeying him, and keeping the Sab- 
bath holy by breaking it. We think John was level- 
headed on that subject, as well as on some others. 

Em. begged him to go to the island and hear the 
blind preacher. But John was strongly attached to the 
church in which he had been brought up, and the forms 
with which he had been familiar from childhood. 
Besides, he did not like worshiping in the open air — 
“ the temple not made with hands.” So John assembled 
his household in his own parlor every Sabbath day and 


49 


read the services. And he made himself contented 
until the communion Sunday drew near. 

Then, on the Saturday immediately preceding it, he 
said : 

“ Susan, my dear, we are famishing for the bread of 
life. We must go to church to-morrow, whether or no. 
Not that I intend to travel on that day ! No ; but I 
tell you what we’ll do, my dear. We’ll go this after- 
noon, and we’ll take vittals and horse feed enough to 
last ns until Monday morning, and we’ll camp out, like 
we did when we were on our journey. It’s lovely 
weather for out-doors, Susan. What do you think of it 
yourself ?” 

“ I think that will be very enjoyable, John.” 

“ The young uns would like it.” 

“ ’Mazingly, John.” 

u Very well ; you get the eating and sleeping conven- 
iences all ready, and I’ll harness up the old wagon we 
travelled in, and I reckon we’ll leave here about five 
o’clock and we’ll get to Greyrock by eleven to-night.” 

This plan was carried out then and continued, once a 
month, all the summer and all the autumn, as long as 
the weather permitted. 

Em. always went with the family when they travelled 
so far to church ; but on other Sundays she went to the 
gate-house, propitiated Sereny by the gift of a little bit 
of bright ribbon, or a string of glass beads, and so 
borrowed old ’Sias from his lawful proprietor to take 
her down the river to hear the blind preacher of the 
island. 

One day, as they floated down the stream before a 
gentle breeze, old ’Sias said to her : 

“ Miss Em., why don’t yer larn to manage de boat 
yourse’f ? It is one ob de easiest things to larn and one 
ob de ’lightfullest things to know. It would be a great 


50 


Em's Husband. 


divarsion to yerse’f in the weeky days, when yer can’t 
habe me to wait on yer.” 

“ Oh, I should like that so much ! Would it be a 
great deal of trouble to you to teach me ?” exclaimed 
the girl. 

“ Why, laws, no, honey ! none.” 

So, then and there, Sias gave Em. her first lesson in 
handling the tiller and steering the boat. 

When they landed he showed her how to lower the 
sail. 

After the preaching, when they were about to return 
home, he showed her how to hoist the sail, and as they 
ran up the river he taught her how to trim it. 

“ And sometimes, Miss Em., when dere’s too much 
wind, or no wind at all, yer can ship de little mast and 
furl de sail and take de oars. I mus’ teach you some 
day how to row. ” 

“Oh, do!” said Em. “I should like that ever so 
much !” 

The old man kept his word, and soon Em. became 
quite an expert in the use of the oars as well as in the 
management of the sail-boat. 

Every Sunday, attended by old ’Sias, she went to the 
island preaching, and sometimes during the week, when 
she could get away, she went alone down to the boat, 
hoisted the little sail and steered for the island or for 
some point on the shore. 

It gave her a new and delightful sense of freedom to 
feel that she had the power to move over the surface 
of the water and go from place to place at her pleasure. 

“ I am a bird when I fly through the forest or over 
the mountains on horseback, and I am a fish when I 
speed through the waters in my boat !” she gleefully 
exclaimed to herself one morning in August as she 
steered for the island. 


Red IVing. 


5i 


She had never yet landed at the island on any week 
day or on any other occasion than to attend the preach- 
ing of the blind minister. She had at such times kept 
a bright lookout for the mysterious beauty known to 
popular superstition as the White Spirit ; but she had 
seen no sign of such a being. She had heard it rumored, 
indeed, that the lady would not come to the island this 
season. 

Now, therefore, on this cool August morning an im- 
pulse suddenly moved Em. to steer directly for the 
island, to land there, go up to the palace and try to get 
permission from the housekeeper to view the interior 
once more, and especially to look upon the portrait of 
the White Spirit. 

The wind was in her favor; the little sail filled, and 
the boat was wafted swiftly down stream to the landing- 
place at the island. 

Em. furled her sail, moored her boat, and stepped 
out upon the pretty path that led first through the 
girdle of acacias and then through the ring of silver 
maples, and thence up the ornamented terraces among 
groves, fountains, arbors, statues, and parterres of 
flowers to the beautiful high knoll on which the white 
mansion stood. 

She rem.embered the way taken by old ’Sias when he 
borrowed the key from the housekeeper, and so she 
followed the path around to the rear of the premises, 
where she was so fortunate as to find the woman — a 
very handsome mulatto, sitting in an arbor, engaged in 
needle-work. 

“Good-morning,” said Em., who had approached so 
softly that her presence was not perceived until she 
spoke. 

“ Lord bless my soul alive ! Who is you, anyhow, 
young lady ?” exclaimed the woman, but there was 


52 


Em's Husband. 


more of surprise, even of amazement, than of offence in 
her manner. 

“ I startled you, I fear,” said Em., with a smile. 

“ Well, I should think you did. Who is you, honey, 
to be sure, then ?” 

“ Only Em. Palmer, one of the new overseer’s daugh- 
ters from the Wilderness.” 

“ Oh, yes ! To be sure !” exclaimed the woman, but 
without ceasing to stare at the visitor. 

“ I came upon you too suddenly. You seemed to be 
in a reverie. But I came to ask you, if it is not asking 
too much, to permit me to see the inside of the house,” 
said Em., with some bashful hesitation. 

“ Oh, yes, chile, you can see the house. Any one can 
see it without reserve at any time, ’cept when my mis- 
tress is at home, and even then they can see every part 
of it except her chamber. Yes, chile, here is the key of 
the front door. Go in and look for yourself.” 

“ Thank you very much. I only want to see the 
drawing-room, with the portrait of your mistress. It is 
the portrait of your mistress, is it not ?” 

“ It’s like her, honey, if you mean the white, vailed 
figure in the drawing-room.” 

“ Thank you,” said Em. again, as she received the 
key, and turned to go around to the front. 

She unlocked the door and entered the hall, and then 
passed immediately to the elegant drawing-room, r up- 
holstered in white, blue and silver. 

She scarcely glanced at the splendors of this saloon, 
but went immediately up to the figure and stood gazing 
at it with uplifted eyes and clasped hands, and eager 
mind, anxious to read the mystery of this vailed face, 
whose wonderful, fair beauty could be traced even be- 
hind the mist of the flowing white gauze. She stood 
thus until startled by a voice at her elbow : 


Ronald Bruce . 


53 


“ That is a most wonderful picture, is it not ?” 

Em. turned suddenly, and stood face to face with 
Ronald Bruce. 


CHAPTER V. 

RONALD BRUCE. 

Handsome as Hercules, ere his first labor. 

Anon. 

1 Ronald Bruce ! Yes, it was he. There he stood, taller, 
browner, and stouter, and, withall, handsomer than he 
had ever been before. 

They recognized each other in one mutual, instanta- 
neous, astonished gaze. 

“ Miss Palmer ! You here ! What a surprise ! I did 
not know it was you until you turned your face. I am 
very glad to see you !” exclaimed the young man, heart- 
ily, offering his hand. 

But he looked full of curiosity and interest, as if he 
would have liked to ask her how on earth she ever came 
there, if the question had been admissible. 

Em.’s expressive face flushed and paled as she re- 
ceived his hand. 

“ I hope I did not frighten you,” continued the young 
lieutenant, seeing that she did not speak. 

“ Oh, no, not much — that is, not at all,” faltered the 
girl, in blushing confusion. 

“You did not in the least expect to meet me here, 
however,” said Ronald Bruce, fixing his honest, dark 
eyes smilingly upon her roseate face. 

“ Oh, no ; but I am very much pleased to meet you 
here,” said Em., beginning to recover her self-posses- 


54 


Em's Husband. 


sion, and speaking with all the more formal politeness, 
because of her conscious embarrassment. 

“ Are you really ? Then this is a mutual pleasure as 
well as a mutual surprise. Being in the neighborhood, 
and hearing of this beautiful place, I came this morn- 
ing to see it. I met the housekeeper, who told me that 
the doors were open, as there was another person inside 
viewing the rooms. I came in and found you.” 

“ I have been here once before. I like to come.” 

“ It is a very attractive place — but do not stand !” 
suddenly exclaimed the young man, as he went off and 
wheeled up a short sofa before the picture. 

“ Now sit down, Miss Palmer, and I will explain how 
I happen to be in this neighborhood.” 

She seated herself, with a bow of thanks, and he, 
leaning over the arm of the sofa, continued : 

“ I am on a three months’ leave, and I have come to 
spend it with my uncle, Commodore Bruce, who has 
been placed on the retired list, and is living at a fine 
old place called The Breezes, on the west bank of the 
river, about half way between this and a queer old 
manor called The Wilderness. Perhaps you may know 
both, if you have been here long.” 

“ Yes, I have seen The Breezes from the river. It is 
a long, gray stone house on a plateau half way up the 
mountain side, half hidden, also, by trees, and with a 
fountain gushing from the rocks at the right, and tumb- 
ling all the way down from ledge to ledge until it falls 
into the river.” 

“ That is the place. The house, as you say, stands 
upon a natural plateau about half way up the mountain. 
The commodore calls the plateau a shelf, and says that 
it is all right that a worn-out old veteran like himselt 
should be laid upon the shelf. But I am sorry that he 


Ronald Bruce . 


55 


is retired from the navy. He needed that active life 
more than any man I ever knew.” 

“ Why ?” inquired Em. 

“ To occupy his mind and make him forget his 
troubles. He has had so much trouble. He lost all his 
children in their childhood, with the exception of one, 
who lived to be about eighteen years old, and was then 
lost on the Eagle , when that fine ship was wrecked on 
the coast of Morocco.” 

“ Oh, what a terrible misfortune !” sighed Em. 

L “ That catastrophe broke his wife’s heart. She died 
ithin a few weeks after the news of the wreck came. 
And now for years past the brave old man has been a 
childless widower. Still I think he bore up much better 
when in active service than he does now, for since his 
retirement he has been subject to fits of deepest mel- 
ancholy. I spend all the time I can with him ; but I 
am only his nephew. I cannot take the place of his 
son.” 

“ I know you must be a great comfort to him, for all 
that,” said Em., in earnest sympathy. 

“ I don’t know. He wants me to resign my commis- 
sion in the navy and live with him altogether.” 

“ Oh, I wish you would ! I wish you would !” impul- 
sively exclaimed the girl. And then she suddenly 
recollected herself, and blushed deeply at her own 
impetuous words.” 

“ Most certainly I will do so, since you wish it !” 
replied the young man with so much comic solemnity 
that Em. broke into a peal of silvery laughter. Then 
growing grave in her turn, she said : 

“ I do not think you ought to make fun of what I 
said, Mr. Bruce.” 

“ ‘ Fun V You think I am jesting ?” 


56 


Em.'s Husband. 


“ Of course I do. You certainly do not mean to say 
that you are in earnest.” 

“ Indeed I do— that is, if— do you know that I have 
never ceased to think of you since that day I first met 
you ?” he whispered, earnestly. 

Em. flushed and paled and began to tremble. 

“ Never ceased to think of you, and longed to see you 
again. And now I do see you, I wish never to lose 
sight of you more. Do you understand me, little Em. ?” 
he breathed, trying to take her hand ; but she withdrew 
it gently and folded her arms. 

“ There, I will not touch your hand if you do not wish 
me to do so. But do you understand me, dear little 
Em. ?” 

“ I— think — I — Oh ! but — ” muttered the girl, inco- 
herently, and every moment growing more and more 
confused and — distressed or delighted, she could hardly 
know which, so mixed were her emotions. 

“ This is what I mean, dear girl — that your presence 
in the neighborhood makes the place so much more 
attractive to me that, if you are to be a permanent resi- 
dent of the county, I shall indeed be strongly tempted 
to forego all my cherished hopes of a career in the 
navy, and be delighted to settle down with my uncle at 
his retreat.” 

“Just to see me once in a while ?” inquired Em., in 
low, tremulous, incredulous tones. 

“ Just to see you as often as I may be permitted to do 
so. You are to live here, then, I am to understand ?” 

“ Yes ; at the Wilderness. My father is the new 
overseer.” 

“ In-deed !” slowly responded Ronald Bruce. 

“ Yes,” replied Em., recovering some self-possession 
now that the conversation was turned from her person- 
ally. “ We are all there — father, mother, all my 


Ronald Bruce . 


57 


brothers and sisters, the little Italian girl, Valencia, 
and Mrs. Whitlock and Aunt Monica.” 

“ Heaven and earth ! Your father is a practical com- 
munist, with the unprecedented peculiarity of keeping 
up the commune at his own expense. So the little 
orphan is still with you ?” 

“ Oh, yes ; but she does not feel that she is an orphan. 
She is one of ourselves. We all love her dearly, and do 
all we can to make her forget she was ever anything 
else. Why, do you know, she has a high little spirit of 
her own, and the first time she showed it by slapping 
Molly in the face for combing her hair roughly, we 
were all delighted, for we said to ourselves : 

“ ‘ Now we know she feels quite at home.’ u 

“ Hum,” gravely commented Ronald Bruce. “ Was 
Molly delighted too ?” 

Em. laughed. 

“ No,” she answered. “ It took all the house to mol- 
lify Molly ; and for a long time it was in vain that we 
explained what a good sign that was ! oh, of course, we 
knew that it was naughty, and that very night, at 
prayer-time, father gave out the children’s hymn, 4 Let 
dogs delight to bark and bite,’ for them all to learn by 
heart against the next Sabbath.” 

“ How do you like living at the Wilderness ?” 

“ Oh, so much ! So very much ! We have such a good 
time ! Plenty of clean space and fresh, sweet air. 
Plenty of well-water and cool shade. Abundance of 
fruit and milk and everything we need. And the forest 
all around the house and the mountains behind and the 
river before. We children have learned to ride and 
drive, for the many horses standing in the stables have 
to be exercised. And I have learned to row and to 
manage a sail-boat. Oh, it is so delightful ! After 
Laundry Lane, to be here is like having died to the 


58 


Em's Husband. 


earth and come to heaven !” exclaimed Em., with such 
enthusiasm that the young man smiled ruefully, and 
said : 

“ And, in fact, you are so perfectly happy that you 
do not need even the presence of an old friend like me 
to add to your happiness — no, not even though he is 
willing to resign a glorious career, and stay here for 
your sake. You do not want him.” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed, indeed I do !” exclaimed Em., im- 
pulsively, and then she clapped her hands over her own 
lips, that no more hasty words might escape them, as 
she turned pale at the thought of their earnestness. 

“ That settles my destiny,” said the young lieutenant. 

“Oh, 'I must go now,” murmured the girl, rising to 
her feet, and throwing over her head a light gossamer 
shawl that had been knit by her own hands. 

“ Ah, not yet ! Stay a little longer,” pleaded the 
young man. 

“ Oh, indeed I must go now. I have duties to do at 
home,” persisted Em., as she shook the white gossamer 
shawl down over her shoulders, until it flowed around 
her form like a mist. 

“ Stop ! One moment ! Good Heaven, what a resem- 
blance !” exclaimed Ronald Bruce, gazing at Em. and 
then at the picture of the vailed lady. 

“ What? Oh ! between me and the portrait ? Yes, it 
has been remarked before,” said Em. 

“ I did not notice it until that flowing mantle of yours 
called my attention to it ; but the resemblance is per- 
fect in every feature of the face ! Is it accidental, or 
are you perhaps a distant relation of the original ?” 

“ It is accidental. I never even saw the original of 
that portrait, who I understand to be the lady of this 
island manor.” 

“ A strange coincidence of form and feature. You 


Ronald Bruce . 


9 


are not going ?” he inquired, seeing Em. moving 
toward the door. 

“ Oh yes, I must. Good-by.” 

“ No, I will see you to your boat.” 

“ But you have not been through the house you came 
to look at.” 

“ I can go through the house another time. I will 
see you to your boat, unless you forbid me to do so.” 

She did not forbid him and so he followed her out, 
and when he had returned the key to the keeper he 
attended her down through the beautiful groves of the 
isle to the landing where she had moored her boat. 

“ Do you mean to say that you sailed from the Wil- 
derness alone in that boat ?” 

“ Yes, why should I not ?” 

“ Suppose an accident had happened ?” 

“ They tell me that no accident ever was know to 
have happened on the Placid. Even if there had been 
an accident, at the very worst I could only have been 
drowned. And is it worth while to refrain from any 
harmless and healthful enjoyment for the fear of a pos- 
sible accident ?” 

“ Well, no, you are right. But it is rare to find a 
young girl so skillful and fearless in managing a sail- 
boat. Who taught you ?” 

“ An old philosopher who is called ’Sias, and keeps 
the gates at the Wilderness,” said Em., as she began to 
unmoor her boat. 

“ No, no, let me do that. I should have done it 
before, but that I did not wish to hasten the time of 
your departure — like dropping the handkerchief for 
my own execution, you know,” said the young man, as 
he took the task out of her hands and performed it 
himself. 


6o 


Eni!s Hits band. 


Then he handed her into the boat, hoisted the sail, 
and took the tiller, and said ; 

“ I hope you will let me go with you as far as our 
course separates — that is, to the landing below our 
place — though, if you feel the very least objection to 
my doing so, say it frankly and I will leave,” he added. 

“ I have no objection at all. I thank you very much; 
but what will become of your own boat that brought 
you here ?” inquired Em., half pleased, half frightened 
at his proposal. 

“ Oh, I came in a little row-boat. I can send a ser- 
vant down here in another boat to tow this back. Come, 
be charitable, and take me in. I am tired of rowing, 
and to row up stream will be much harder work than it 
was to row down.” 

Em. hesitated for a moment and communed with her- 
self to this effect. 

“ I would not refuse any other person a seat in my 
boat, and why, now,, should I refuse this gentleman, 
who has been kinder to me than most people ? I will 
not refuse him. It would be unkind, ungrateful and 
impolite.” 

“ Shall I go ?” inquired Ronald Bruce. 

“ Oh, no, pray do not. Keep your seat, sir,” said Em., 
all the more graciously because she had hesitated. 

“ Ay, ay, sir,” said the young officer, laughingly 
touching his hat. 

He took the tiller again and steered for the Wilder- 
ness, while Em. sat opposite to him with her idle hands 
before her. 

“ Now you know that you are captain of this boat, and 
I am only the man at the helm, under your command. I 
will steer where you order me and stop when you tell 
me,” said Ronald Bruce, 

“ No ? ” replied Em., “ when I resigned the helm I 


Ronald Bruce. 


6 1 


resigned the command. I decline the responsibility 
you would force upon me. I am only a passenger.” 

“ Very well,” said the man at the helm, “ then here 
we go !” and, unknown to Em., he shot past the landing 
below The Breezes and steered" for the Wilderness. 

“ Why, where are you going ?” inquired Em., when at 
last she perceived his course. 

“ To take you home to your landing at the foot of the 
Wilderness, and then walk with you up to the house to 
see your father and mother.” 

“ I declare you are like the fox in the fable of the fox 
and the hare,” said Em. to herself, but to him she only 
put a question : 

“ How will you get back ?” 

“ Oh, walk it — The Breezes being on the same side of 
the river with the Wilderness, you know.” 

“ Oh, yes, to be sure !” replied the girl, and upon 
every account she was very glad that Ronald Bruce 
was going straight home with her, for thus she would 
have his company for an hour or two longer, and then 
he would see the family, and they would all know how 
he came home with her, and all would be frank, open, 
and straightforward. 

“ You are very kind to me, Mr. Bruce, and you alwa)-s 
were. I know my mother and father will be very glad 
to welcome you,” she said. 

They soon reached the island landing, where Ronald 
Bruce lowered the sail, moored the boat, and would 
have given his hand to help his companion out, but she, 
unaccustomed to any such assistance, without waiting 
for it, sprang lightly to the shore. 

He joined her immediately, and they entered the 
forest road and walked toward the house. It was now 
so near sunset that the sun had sunk out of sight behind 


62 


Em's Husband ’ 


the mountain range, casting the wooded valley into a 
premature twilight. 

The young pair did not hurry themselves, but walked 
in a leisurely way through the deepening shades of the 
forest, until they reached the manor-house. . 

Em. then led her companion around to the rear, 
where they found John and all the family sitting before 
the door of the Red Wing, enjoying the coolness of the 
August evening. 

“Well, little truant, where have you been all the 
afternoon, and who is that you have got with you ?” 
inquired John Palmer, as Em. and her escort approached. 

“ I have been all this time on the river, and at the 
island, father, and I have brought an old friend home 
whom you and mother will be glad to see — Lieutenant 
Ronald Bruce,” said Em. 

Young Bruce lifted his cap and advanced. 

But almost before he could take a step the little 
Italian girl, Valencia, with a great cry of joy, rushed 
forward and clasped him with both little arms, calling 
him, in her enthusiastic language, her illustrious, her 
beneficent, her beloved, her caressed, and so forth, and 
so forth. 

Ronald Bruce responded heartily, lifted her in his 
arms and kissed and blessed her, and then put her 
gently down, and went forward to greet John and 
Susan Palmer, who both received him very cordially, 
and pressed him to be seated and to stay to tea. 

Ronald Bruce, in look and manner, showed his 
willingness to do so, at the same time that he explained 
his inability by saying that he was obliged to start 
immediately, as he had to walk back through the forest 
and half way up the mountain to The Breezes, where he 
was then staying with his uncle, Commodore Bruce. 

“ Well there,” said John Palmer ; “ we did hear that 


The Guest. 


6 3 


a retired naval officer had taken that old place, but we 
never heard x his name. So it was the commodore. 
Well, sir, his place, I should say, was a good ten miles 
from here by the road ; it is a great deal nearer by the 
river. Now, sir, there’s no need for you to walk it 
at all. If so be you must go back, why, there’s a dozen 
horses in the stable needing exercise, the best of ’em 
heartily at your service. But — would the old gentle- 
man be anxious if you was to stay out all night ?” 

“ Oh, no !” laughed the young man. “ He retires to 
his study so early that he would not know it.” 

“ Well, then, sir, here’s my offer to you — the best 
horse in the stable, if you must go ; or a hearty welcome 
to the best room in the house, if you can stay,” said 
John, cordially. 

“ Do stay, Mr. Bruce. We should all be happy 
to have you,” added Susan Palmer, glad of the chance 
to offer hospitality. 

The little Italian girl caught his hand and held 
it tightly while she lifted her dark, bright, eager eyes 
pleadingly to his. 

But Ronald Bruce sought the eyes of Em., which said 
nothing, their glance being fixed upon the ground. 

Nevertheless, the young man thanked the hospitable 
couple, and accepted their invitation as frankly as it 
was given. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE GUEST. 

Welcome he is in hut and hall, 

To maids and matrons, men and all. 

Praed. 

To the isolated family in the Wilderness Manor the 
sight of a stranger was a rare event, and the entertain- 


6 4 


Evils Husband. 


ment of a guest an unprecedented one. So Ronald 
Bruce’s frank acceptance of their cordial invitation to 
stay to supper and spend the night threw every mem- 
ber of the household into a flutter of excitement. 

vSusan Palmer, signing to Em. to keep her seat and 
entertain her visitor, arose and withdrew into the 
house. 

Ann Whitlock and old Monica got up and followed 
her. 

And the three women stood together in the kitchen 
and held a council of cookery as to what should be pro- 
vided for so “ distinguished ” a guest. 

“ Now you jest leab it all to me , chillun, and 'range 
yourselbes underneaf my orders for de night, and I jest 
tell yer all what, I’ll jest ’videsich a supper as will make 
dat young man thank his blessed stars as he missed his 
dinner at home — which he must a missed, yer know, 
’cause all dem dere big bugs allers eats deir dinner 
’bout de time we all thinkin’ ’bout gwine to bed,” said 
Monica, confidently. 

“ And you really think you can cook a supper that he 
will enjoy ?” anxiously inquired Susan. 

“Hush! honey, what’s yer talkin’ ’bout? He mus’ 
be a dreat deal harder to please dan his ole uncle was 
if I can’t. Wasn’t I cook to ole Marse Capt’n Wynde- 
worth, at Green Point ? And didn’t ole Marse Capt’n 
Bruce come to dinner and supper dere two or free 
times a week ? And where would you find two greater 
epitaphs dan dey was ? G’way from here, chillun, and 
let me get de supper,” exclaimed the old woman. 

And truly, with the resources of the rich Wilderness 
Manor, with the aid of the well filled smoke houses, 
poultry-yards, dairies, gardens and orchards, old Monica 
found materials worthy even of her culinary science. 

Then, leaving the cook to get supper, Susan Palmer 



EM’S FIRST LESSON IN HANDLING THE TILLER . — See J‘aye 50 . 





The Guest. 


65 


and Ann Whitlock went up stairs and prepared the 
largest and best bed-chamber (usually reserved for the 
use of the agent) for the accommodation of their guest. 

Meanwhile, the party gathered under the trees in 
front of the house, conversing gayly together, enjoying 
the cool evening air. 

John Palmer, who was as innocent and unconven- 
tional as a child in the matter of asking questions, drew 
out the frank young officer to speak freely of his own 
circumstances. 

When Susan Palmer had finished her task in the 
house and rejoined the circle under the trees, John was 
saying : 

“ And so the old gentleman wants you to resign your 
Commission in the navy, and to spend your life with 
him, does he ?” 

“ Yes. You see it is not from selfishness on his part, 
Ybut from affection. The terrible disaster through which 
the lost his only son at sea has so wrought upon his 
mind that he dreads to trust any one he loves to the 
career of a sailor,” the young man explained. 

“ Ay, ay,” said John, “ ‘ sich is life.’ And you say that 
he promises, if you will resign your commission in the 
navy and stay with him for the short remainder of his 
life, he will leave you The Breezes and all his other 
property at his death ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Have you a loving for the sea ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, then, if I was you, I wouldn’t give it up. Not 
for filthy lucre, I wouldn’t ! It is an honorable career, 
the navy, and some must follow it and risk their lives, 
and, if need be, lose their lives ; for ‘ sich is life.’ Put 
it to the old gentleman that way. Tell him he wouldn’t 
a done it, when he was a young man, and why then 


66 


Em.'s Husband. 


should he want you to ? Tell him you will spend all 
your leaves with him, and that you don’t want his 
money ; you want an honorable naval career. There, 
young gentleman, tell him that.” 

Ronald Bruce smiled at the simplicity and freedom 
with which honest John Palmer gave advice involving 
the loss or gain of a large estate, but was saved the 
trouble of replying by his wife, Susan, who struck into 
the conversation with : 

“ But law, John, the old gentleman’s feelings ought to 
be considered some. It ain’t all a question of money, 
nor it ain’t all a question of honor ; but of kindness and 
of feelings.” 

“ We be talking of principles, my dear, not feelings ! 
But there ! what’s the use of arguing ? Men will be 
guided by principles and women by feelings while the 
world stands, for ‘ sich is life.’ And youth will be 
guided by its own wayward will. This young gentle- 
man will do as he pleases, after all.” 

Ronald Bruce laughed, but did not commit himself. 

Em. was perfectly silent. And the deepening twi- 
light threw her beautiful face into such dark shadow 
that her lover could not see its expression. 

John Palmer started another topic by speaking of the 
island, and the mysterious stranger who owned it. 

“ They say as she is as fair as an angel of light ; but 
how can they tell that, since nobody has ever seen her 
face unvailed ?” said John. 

“ I know nothing about her,” replied the guest, “ ex- 
cept what the gossip of the country people tell me, 
which may not be true.” 

They discoursed concerning the White Spirit until 
one of the boys came out of the house and whispered 
to his mother that supper was on the table. 

Susan Palmer arose in good, old-fashioned, rustic 


The Guest. 


6 7 


style and invited her guest to walk in and partake, 
adding, with polite hypocrisy, that she hoped he would 
excuse the plainness of fare they had to set before him. 

Young Bruce laughed as he replied that there was 
no doubt the viands were excellent in themselves and 
much better than he deserved — and so, with the custom 
of his class, he offered his arm to Mrs. Palmer to take 
her to supper. 

Susan accepted it and marched in. 

John looked on with an amused smile, and then 
gravely took Em.’s hand and tucked it under his arm, 
and followed into the spacious dining room of the old 
house, where his first words were an exclamation of 
honest astonishment : 

“ Oh, My !” 

It cannot be denied that the table and the supper 
were a triumph of decorative art and culinary science — 
adorned with the choicest flowers of the conservatory, 
and laden with the dantiest luxuries of the season. 
But covers were laid for four only — for John, Susan, 
Em., and their guest. 

“For,” said Aunt Monica, in consultation with Mrs. 
Whitlock, “ you an’ de chillun will ’joy yourselves a 
dreat deal more eatin’ of your fill ’long of yourselves 
dan sittin’ down dere, ’shamed to eat as much as you 
want ’fore de quality.” 

Ann Whitlock and the young people fully agreed 
with Aunt Monica’s view of the case, for, with them, 
feeding was always the most serious business of life, at 
which they wanted no disturbing or restraining influ- 
ence ; and here, indeed, was a feast not to be slighted 
on account of any company in the world, but to be dis- 
cussed at liberty, and enjoyed at leisure. 

So the party of four sat down to an epicure’s supper, 
and did it full justice. 


68 


Em's Husband . 


Young Bruce complimented Mrs. Palmer upon the 
excellence of her dishes, whereupon poor Susan, with 
much pride, answered : 

‘‘ Well, sir, it is not much to say to you ; but our old 
| Aunt Monica was chief cook to old Captain Wynde- 
\ worth, who was one of the greatest epitaphs in the 
I country.” 

Ronald’s dark mustache quivered for a moment with 
the humorous smile that was hovering around his lips ; 
but that smile vanished when he saw the distressed face 
of poor Em., who sat directly opposite him. 

John saw all and understood half, saying to himself : 

“ Now the old ’oman has put her foot in it somehow 
or other ; but what odds ? ‘ Sich is life.’ ” 

Young Bruce had tact enough to change the subject 
and lead the conversation into such channels of enter- 
tainment and amusement that the face of Em. soon lost 
its look of care and pain, lighted up with interest and 
beamed with pleasure. 

And the little, half-perceived cloud having vanished, 
the dainty supper passed off very pleasantly. 

When they rose from the table, John led the way to 
the front piazza, saying : 

“ I couldn’t advise you to sit under the trees at this 
hour, sir. The dews are heavy at this season.” 

The young man took the offered seat from his host, 
and sat down in the summer night’s sweet gloom, hold- 
ing the hand of Em., who, unseen, sat near him, and 
good-naturedly answering the child-like questions of 
honest John, who wanted to know if he had ever been 
to Africa. If he could tell anything about the slave 
trade on the coast of Guinea. If he had ever been to 
the Mediterranean. If he knew much about the pirates 
on the coast of Barbary. And were there really wreck- 
ers there who rescued shipwrecked passengers from the 


The Guest. 


69 


deep only to carry them off inland and sell them into 
slavery ? Had he ever doubled the Cape of Good Hope, 
and were there really chunks of solid gold to be found 
there as big as pigs of lead ? And diamonds large as 
lumps of coal ? Had he ever doubled Cape Horn ? And 
was there truly a land of fire there, corresponding to the 
land of ice, in Iceland, say ? 

Young Ronald Bruce had been to sea, in some capac- 
ity or other, ever since he was ten years old. So he had 
seen all these places, and was able to answer all these 
questions, and many more, that were put to him during 
the evening. 

His patience was inexhaustible, while he held the 
slender, delicate little hand of Em. within his own. 

But these honest people were early birds, and very 
soon Susan Palmer suggested that their guest must be 
weary b) r this time and would, perhaps, like to be shown, 
to his room. 

Upon this hint John arose, lighted a tallow candle 
and offered to conduct Mr. Bruce to his chamber. 

Young Ronald pressed the little hand that he held in 
the darkness and arose, bade the two women good night, 
and followed his host into the house. 

John, flaring tallow candle in hand, led the way up a 
plain, wide staircase to the second floor, and to a large, 
old-fashioned back room, with paneled walls and 
polished plank floor, with tall windows looking full 
upon the precipice, and so near it that one leaning out 
might peel a piece of moss from the rock. 

The room was lighted by two “ mould ” candles in tall, 
silver-plated candlesticks that stood upon the top of a 
high, antique chest of drawers, and on each side 
of a tall, oval mirror. 

The wood-work of all the furniture in the room, of 
the high post, canopied bedsteads, the antique chest of 


7o 


Em's Husband. 


drawers, the ancient press, or wardrobe, the old escrit- 
oire, or book case and writing desk combined, the claw- 
footed sofa, the high-backed, hard “ easy-chair,” and 
the spider-legged chairs and tables were all of the old- 
est and darkest mahogany. 

The draperies of the room, the curtains at the win- 
dows and the bedstead, the covers of the chairs and 
the sofa were all of English chintz, of large pattern, and 
once of “ loud ” colors, but now toned down to a gen- 
eral hue of faded flowers. 

“ I see you looking around on the room with curios- 
ity, sir. Yes, it is old-timey ! I reckon if these here 
old sticks of furniture had a tongue they could tell a 
tale — don’t you ?’’ inquired John, as he placed his can- 
dlestick upon the high mantel shelf. 

“ Yes, doubtless,” mused Ronald Bruce. 

“ But this is nothing to the manor-house, sir, though 
they do say this is older than that. But if you want to 
see a rale, gorgeous, old, ancient palace, you come some 
day and see the manor-house, sir ! Why, for one thing, 
there is a picture, large as life, of a court lady of 
the time of King David or Queen Mary, or some king 
or queen, I don’t remember which ; but anyhow, it is 
hundreds of years ago, and the splendid colors are 
as bright and fresh as if it was painted only yesterday. 
But I am keeping you from sleep, sir ; good-night,” 
said John, with a smile as he took up his light to retire. 

“ Good-night, and many thanks for all your kind 
attentions,” returned the young man. 

When John Palmer reached the family sitting-room, 
he found all the household gathered around the table 
as a common centre, discussing the merits of their 
guest. 

“He is really one of the most gentlemanly young 
men I ever saw in my life,” said Susan, 


The Gtiesl. 


7i 


“ Hi ! Honey ! What yer talkin’ ’bout ! Ain’t he 
one ob de Bruces ? An’ dey do tell me as the Bruces 
are ’cended from some r’yal fam’ly or other. Not dat 
I know, but so I hab heerd,” said Aunt Monica. 

“ There was a great hero named Robert Bruce, who 
became king of Scotland in the old, old times, but 
there were also a large tribe of Bruces. So how 
can any one tell ? But as for this young gentleman, it 
does not matter in the least whether he is descended 
from a king or a carter, he is himself; that is the best he 
could possibly be,” said Em., earnestly. 

“ He is an honest, straightforward young fellow 
enough ; and you are right, my girl ; it don’t matter 
two straws who he is descended from,” added John. 

“ Well, chillun, as de heat and burden ob entertainin’ 
ob dis young ge’man falls onto my ole shoulders, and I 
hab to get up in de mornin’ to cook a fust-chop, out an’ 
out breakfust for him, I'm agwine to bed ! Tell yer 
all what, it’s desaustin’ to de system cookin’ for dese 
here epitaphs !” said old Aunt Monica. 

“ Oh, Aunty !” exclaimed Em., as if she had received 
a stab, so keen was the recollection of the error of the 
supper table — “ Oh, Aunty, not epitaph, you mean epi- 
cure! Epitaphs are put on tombstones, and epicures — ” 

“Are put under them ! So, what odds ? ‘ Sich is life,’ ” 
said John. 

“ Yes, but I want her to remember this, father, dear. 
Aunt Monica, will you remember that people who love 
delicate and dainty food are epicures and not epitaphs ?” 
pleaded Em. 

“Yes, honey, I’ll try,” said old Monica, and she 
remembered the emphasized syllables so well that 
thenceforth she put them together, and when she had 
occasion to speak of a gourmand she called him a cura- 
taph. 


72 


Em's Husband. 


John called the children around him for their even- 
ing prayers ; and after these had been offered up, the 
simple, kindly people bade each other good-night and 
retired to rest. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A PROPOSAL. 

I see a small, old-fashioned room, 

With paneled wainscot high ; 

Old portraits round in order set, 

Carved, heavy tables, chairs, buffets, 

Of dark mahogany. 

And there a high-backed, hard settee 
On six brown legs and paws, 

Flowered o’er with silk embroidery ; 

And there, all rough with filigree, 

Tall screens on gilded claws. 

Caroline Southey. 

When young Ronald Bruce awoke in the morning, he 
found all things prepared for his toilet by the care of 
the two boys, who had brought fresh water and towels 
for their guest while he slept. 

He arose and dressed himself before the tall mirror 
on the chest of drawers that stood between the two 
back windows looking out upon the precipice. 

Just before leaving his room, he leaned from the win- 
dow and plucked a wild mountain rose that grew in 
the cleft of the rock, and placed it in his button-hole. 

Then he went down stairs to find his way to the 
parlor. 

He found the little Italian girl, Vennie, in the hall 
below. With the impetuosity of her age and nation 


A Proposal. 


73 


she rushed to him, threw herself into his arms, calling 
him by the most extravagant pet names that her hyper- 
bolical language afforded. 

He responded to all her enthusiastic caresses, and then 
allowed her to lead him into an old-fashioned, oak-pan- 
eled front parlor, that looked out upon the garden 
of the old manor-house, and beyond that upon the sec- 
tion of the wooded vale with its wall of mountains and 
its far down glimpse of the river. 

Here he found the breakfast table neatly set and Em. 
herself flitting from cupboard to kitchen, back and 
forth, putting finishing touches to its arrangement. 

She paused suddenly in her work to greet him as he 
entered. 

He noticed the lovely flush and the timid smile that 
.lighted up her face as she offered her hand, and her low- 
toned “ good-morning/’ 

He took the delicate hand and raised it to his lips, 
while her eyes dropped, and her color deepened under 
the eloquent gaze he fixed on her face. 

But before he could speak a word, John entered with 
boisterous cordiality, and greeted his guest. Since 
coming to the country and entering upon a happier and 
more prosperous manner of life, John’s nature had 
risen out of its subdued sadness into something very 
like hilariousness. 

Susan soon followed him ; breakfast was brought in, 
and the four sat down to the table. 

Old Monica waited on them. 

“ I hope the old commodore won’t be up early enough 
this morning to inquire after you, and grow anxious 
before you get home,” said blunt John. 

“ Oh, no, my uncle rises very late. It is a habit he 
has grown into since his retirement from the navy,” 
smilingly replied the young man. 


74 


Em's Husband. 


“ You didn’t tell me whether there was any one else 
at The Breezes to keep the old gentleman company,” 
said Palmer. 

“ Oh ! a house full. My mother is there, and his sis- 
ter, and her daughter, and two lady friends,” said Ron- 
ald Bruce. 

“ A nice party for a country house, I should say. But, 
dear me ! five ladies and only one young gentleman to 
take care of them 1 You must have your hands quite 
full, sir,” exclaimed John, in comic dismay. 

“ Oh, not at all ! My uncle relieves me — plays whist, 
reads, drives, and tells stories. I assure you, he is the 
more popular of the two of us,” laughed Ronald, 
as they rose from the table. 

“Well, Lieutenant, whenever you are disposed, by 
way of a little change, to leave high life and ladies’ 
society, for a plain man’s company and table, we shall 
all be very glad and grateful to have you here,” heart- 
ily declared John. 

“ Thanks, very much. Now, however, I shall have 
to bid you a happy good morning,” replied Ronald. 

“Stay. I will order your horse,” exclaimed Palmer, 
hurrying from the room. 

Susan had already left it temporarily, to see to some 
household affairs. 

The young lovers were alone. 

“ Oh, my little fairy of the forest, when shall I see 
you again ?” he breathed, in a low sigh, as he took her 
hand and looked into her face. 

She dropped her eyes, but did not reply. 

“When shall I see you again, Em. ?” he pleaded. 

“ When you come again. Father said he would be 
glad to have you,” she murmured, without raising her 
eyes. 

“ And you, will you be glad to see me ?” 


A Proposal. 


75 


Susan Palmer bustled into the room before the girl 
could reply. 

Ronald dropped Em.’s hand and turned away. 

John came in and announced the horses, for there 
were two. 

“ I have ordered a groom to attend you, sir, that he 
may bring back the beasts without giving you any 
trouble,” Palmer explained. 

“ You give yourself a great deal of trouble, my 
friend,” said Ronald. 

“ No ; the animals need exercise. I am glad of the 
chance of giving it to them. Between you and me, sir, 
two-thirds of their number ought to be sold, and so I 
have told the agent time and again. What good do 
they do, standing in their stalls ? Well, sir, Lord bless 
you!” said John, heartily shaking the offered hand of 
his departing guest. 

Ronald Bruce then took leave of Susan and of Em., 
holding the girl’s hand a little while in hope that she 
would raise her blue eyes once to his own. 

But she did not, so he pressed the little hand and left 
her. 

Then Em. slipped out of the room and flew up to 
her attic chamber and placed herself at the window 
which commanded a view of the mountain path by 
which Ronald Bruce left the house. 

She saw him ride away slowly up the mountain until 
he reached the entrance of an evergreen thicket, which 
would soon conceal him from view. 

There he paused and turned to look back at the 
house which contained his idol. To Em.’s dismay his 
eyes caught her, as she watched him from the window. 
He raised his hat, bowed very low, and rode slowly and 
reluctantly into the thicket, where he disappeared. 


76 


Eni!s Husband. 


Em. remained at the window, gazing up the now 
deserted mountain path, lost in thought. 

“ To think that he should have remembered me so 
long ! To think he, a cultured and refined man of good 
family, should care for me so much — for me, the child 
of a workman ; a poor, half educated girl ! Yet, he 
{ does care for me. But, oh ! I wish he had not held my 
hand so long, or dropped it so suddenly when poor 
mother came in. If there was any harm in his holding- 
my hand, why did he hold it ? Or, if there was no harm, 
why did he drop it so quickly ? I don’t understand ! I 
wonder what will come of it all ! Oh, how I do wish I 
could look into the future !” 

“EM.!” 

She started from her dreamy reverie. It was her 
mother’s voice calling loudly from the foot of the stairs. 

“ Yes, ma’am ; I’m coming directly,” she answered, as 
she hurried down from the attic. 

Susan was at the foot of the stairs. 

“Where have you been all. this time, girl ?” 

“ Only up stairs, mother.” 

“ There’s a whole basket full of stockings to darn, and 
you ought to have been at it an hour ago ; only this 
having a visitor puts everything back ; not but what he 
was a very agreeable young man too,” said Susan Palmer, 
as she led the way, followed by her daughter, to the 
family sitting room, where just then a patch-work quilt 
was stretched out in the frame, and all the women and 
girls of the house, except Em. and her mother, were 
seated at it, industriously quilting. 

Susan joined the quilters and Em. sat down to her 
basket of stockings. 

So the family routine was taken up again, 
r Days passed, and the visit of young Ronald Bruce 
Was nearly forgotten by all the busy family except Ein., 


A Proposal ’ 


77 


( 'who, more was the pity, thought of him all day and 
dreamed of him all night. 

“ I can’t think what has come over the child !” said 
John. “ She is so silent.” 

“ She wants amusement. She wants some change. 
Some companions of her own age. She is'not a child 
any longer, but a young woman,” said Susan. 

“Well, I know ; but she can drive, and she can ride, 
and she can row,” said John ; “ and she used to be very 
fond of doing that when she first came down here.” 

“ Oh ! yes, it was all new to her then ; but it is all 
played out now. Em. wants the company of young 
people of her own age. Here she has only old folks and 
children.” 

“ Well, poor gal, I wish I could give her all she wants,” 
sighed John. 

“ Where is she now ?” 

“ Sitting out in the back porch, making a dress for 
Mrs. Whitlock.” 

No more was said at the time. 

Weeks passed, and nothing more was heard of Ron- 
ald Bruce. 

“I wonder why he does not come,” sighed Em. to her- 
self. “ He seemed so delighted to see me, so anxious 
to know whether I was going to stay in the neighbor- 
hood, and so overjoyed when I told him that I was liv- 
ing here permanently. He even told me that would 
decide him to remain with his uncle. And yet he has 
never called here since, though father invited him so 
cordially to do so. Perhaps he stays away because 
father has not returned his visit ; but surely a young 
gentleman like himself would not stand on ceremony 
with a plain, elderly overseer like poor father. Oh ! 
dear, I don’t understand it at all, and I wish I could stop 
thinking about it.” 


78 


Em!s Husband. 


But she did not stop thinking about it, although she 
busied herself more actively and constantly than ever 
with her household duties. 

Two months passed, and the very memory of the 
young lieutenant’s visit, which had broken the monot- 
ony of their life in the Wilderness, seemed to have faded 
away into dreamland. 

The goldei> days of October were at hand, and still 
no news was heard of their neighbor, Ronald Bruce. 

One glorious autumn morning, about this time, the 
family had finished breakfast, and John and the boys 
had gone out to work. 

Susan and the other women and children were gath- 
ered in the family sitting room, where a cheerful wood 
fire burned on the hearth. 

They were busily engaged in their various employ- 
ments. Susan was making up flannel shirts for the 
winter, assisted by the three little girls, who were hem- 
ming for her. Ann Whitlock was knitting yarn socks 
for coming cold weather, old Monica was sewing carpet 
rags, and Em., seated at the window, which commanded 
the mountain pass leading to The Breezes, was care- 
fully working the button-holes in the otherwise finished 
shirts. 

Suddenly she called out : 

“ Oh, mother, what do you think ? There is a carriage 
coming down the mountain road toward the house ! 
Such a handsome carriage, with such fine horses and 
liveried servants ! Whose can it be, do you think ?” 

“ Lord knows !” exclaimed Susan, as she started, 
dropping her work, and rushed to the window, fol- 
lowed by all the family, to see the unprecedented sight 
of a carriage coming to the solitary manor-house. 

They crowded before the two windows of that end of 


A Proposal. 


79 


the room and gazed with wonder upon the phenome- 
non. 

It was certainly a very handsome, close carriage, 
drawn by a splendid pair of silver gray horses, and 
driven by a stout, gray haired negro coachman in 
livery. 

It wound down the mountain road, turned into the 
house drive, and finally drew up before the main en- 
trance of the old hall. A footman got down from be- 
hind and knocked at the door. 

“ The idea of anybody knocking at that empty old 
house ! It’s awful, it’s ghostly, and one wouldn’t be 
astonished if a ghost was to open the door at last !” 
exclaimed Susan Palmer, as she left the sitting-room 
and went out of her own house door to meet the visitors, 
whoever they might chance to be. 

The women and children stared through one of the 
windows to see what was coming of this arrival. 

Em. gazed through the other, hoping some news of 
— well, of one Ronald Bruce, in whom she took some 
interest. 

She saw her mother go up the front steps of the old 
manor-house, to the still persistently knocking footman, 
and seem to explain to him the utter futility of his 
exertions, and the total impossibility of receiving any 
response from a closed up and deserted house. 

She then saw her, followed by the footman, walk up 
to the door of the carriage and speak to some one 
within. 

Finally, she saw the carriage door open, and a lady 
alight and join her mother. 

As they walked towards the old house Em. had 
a good view of the lady’s face and form. 

She was a tall, slender, dark-haired, dark-eyed 
woman, still beautiful, though passed the prime of life, 


8o 


Em's Husband. 


for she seemed from forty to forty-five years of age. 
She was richly dressed in black, but not in mourning, 
and a handsome cashmere shawl fell gracefully from 
her shoulders. 

But what took Em.’s breath, as the stranger drew 
nearer, was her wondrous likeness to Ronald Bruce. 

“ She is his mother ! I know that beautiful and 
queenly woman is his mother,” said Em. to herself, in 
breathless interest, as the lady and her conductress 
approached. 

“ If you will excuse our plainness, madam, and come 
into the sitting-room, you will find a fire. There 
is none in the parlor, and as it is damp there, you 
might take cold,” said Susan, as she entered the house. 

“ Pray make no apologies, Mrs. Palmer ; I am sure this 
room is delightfully home-like and attractive,” answered 
the lady, with just a tinge of condescension in her 
manner that escaped the notice of Susan, but slightly 
chilled Em.’s more sensitive spirit. 

“ Pray take a seat, Mrs. Bruce,” said Susan, pushing 
forward the best arm-chair. “ This is my oldest daugh- 
ter that I have at home,” added Susan, introducing Em. 
but not thinking it necessary to present the other 
members of her numerous family. 

“ How do you do, my dear ?” said the lady, kindly 
holding out her kid-gloved hand to the girl, as if to en- 
courage a poor child of the low T er orders, but looking 
on her with the beautiful dark eyes of Ronald Bruce. 

Em. bent her head respectfully, but in silence ; for, 
indeed, there was no need for her to speak, as the lady 
turned away almost instantly and addressed Susan : 

“ Yes, Mrs. Palmer, as I was saying to you, I have 
come here in search of a seamstress, and in some hope 
of getting one from your family. My son, Lieutenant 
Bruce, of the navy, who knows your husband, I think — ” 


A Proposal. 


81 


“Yes,' madam, he does. I hope the lieutenant is 
well ? ' ’ 

Etn.’s eyes, ears and heart were all on the qui vive 
now. She almost feared her companions of the moment 
might read her thoughts, her hopes, and her fears in 
her face, so she bent lowlier over her task, and worked 
more diligently at her button holes. 

“ Thanks, he is quite well. He has just returned 
from a two months’ sojourn at the Naval Academy of 
Annapolis, where he was suddenly called upon some 
business connected with the school — some investigation 
of — I know not what.” 

“ Oh, indeed,” said Susan. 

Em.’s troubled heart leaped for joy and then settled 
into a delicious calm. He had not forgotten her. He 
had been away. That was all. 

“ My son, hearing me inquire, in vain, of my friends 
for a seamstress, casually informed me that the new 
overseer of the Wilderness Manor had several daugh- 
ters, and it would be quite worth while to try whether 
one of them would not be able to enter my service. I 
really must have help in getting ready for the winter, 
Mrs. Palmer. So, if one of your girls would come to 
me at once, she should have a comfortable home and 
liberal remuneration,” continued the lady. 

“ Well, really, ma’am, it is true, I have several daugh- 
ters — six of ’em, in fact ; but the two eldest are married 
and away. And the three youngest are little things, 
from six to ten. So, it comes to this, that there is no 
one but Em. here who is fit for the place.” 

“As Ronald Bruce knew well enough,” smiled Em. 
to herself. 

“ Ah, is it so ? But of course Lieutenant Bruce could 
not know all these little details of your family. He 


82 


Em's Husband. 


only knew that you had several girls who might pos- 
sibly be good seamstresses.” 

“Just so, ma’am ; but there’s only Em.,” said Susan. 

“As he knew— as he knew,” silently sang the girl’s 
heart. 

“ Is she a neat and skillful seamstress ?” 

“ None better in the world, ma’am, I think.” 

“ Then if you will part with her to me, I would like 
to engage her for a few weeks.” 

“ It is just as Em. pleases, madam. There is no neces- 
sity in us why our girls should go out to work, but I 
am willing to oblige you ; and, besides, I think the 
change would do the girl good. She has been moping 
lately. What do you say, Em. ?” inquired Susan, turn- 
ing to her quiet daughter. 

“ I will go, mother, if this lady wishes me to do so ; 
and I will do my best to give satisfaction,” answered 
the girl, demurely. 

“ Very well. Can you be ready to come to-morrow, 
if I send the carriage for you ?” inquired Mrs. Bruce, 

“ I will come to you to-morrow, madam ; but do not 
take the trouble to send for me. One of my brothers 
can take me to you,” said Em. 

“ Just as you please, my dear. Three dollars a week, 
with board and washing, is what I have been in the 
habit of giving my seamstresses,” concluded the lady, 
as she arose to take her leave. 

“ What will father say to this, mother ?” inquired 
Em., when Mrs. Bruce had gone. 

“ Your father won’t say nothing against it, child. 
We have had many a talk about you. Hq’ 11 be glad 
you’ll have a change. And mind he’ll take you over 
there himself to-morrow morning,” answered Susan. 

Em. spent the remainder of the day in packing her 
little box for her removal to Commodore Bruce’s. 


A Proposal. 


83 


When John Palmer came home to dinner he was told 
what had happened, and gave his hearty approval. 

“ I’m glad for the girl’s sake,” he said. “I’ know 
it will do her a great deal of good. We’ll miss her 
very much, I feel. But our loss will be her gain, and 
we must put up with it ; for ‘ sich is life.’ ” 

Later in the day old ’Sias and Aunt Sally, who had 
heard the news from the boys, strayed into the house to 
pay Em. a parting visit. 

“ Well,” said old ’Sias. “ I ain’t had sich a surprise, 
no, not since I was a boy, and dat were about a hun- 
d’ed and fifty years ago, more or less, honey, more or 
less !” 

“ Law ! What a story ! But he don’t mean no harm 
by it, Miss Em. ! ’Deed he don’t ! He nebber does 
nufhn’ to nobody,” said Aunt Sally. “ But I’m mighty 
pleased long o’ dem dere B’uces what yer gwine to, 
honey. I nebber seed de ole man, nor yet de madam, 
but I see de young man, what time he come and took 
supper and stayed all night here. He’s a good soul, 
honey. I took a good look at him, and I know it. He’s 
a good soul. He’ll nebber do nuffin’ to nobody.” 

With these consoling assurances Aunt Sally took 
leave and departed, carrying Uncle ’Sias away with 
her. 

That night after Em. went to bed, her mother came 
up unexpectedly and sat by her side. 

“ After this busy day I wish to take this only chance 
I shall have of speaking to you in private, my child,” 
she said. 

Em. took her mother’s hand and kissed it with silent 
affection. 

“Listen to me, child. I want togi ve you a little 
advice before you leave us, for your safe guidance 
while you are away.” 


S 4 


li m. ' s Husba nd. 


“ Dear mother, indeed I will listen ; indeed I will fol- 
low your counsel,” said the girl, simply and earnestly. 

“ I need not tell you to read the Word of God, with 
prayer, morning and evening. That I am sure you will 
do.” 

“ Yes, dear, I will.” 

“ Nor need I give you any hints as to your conduct 
toward your employers. Your own good sense will 
teach you how to behave toward them. But, oh, my 
dear child, there are dangers that beset youth, which I 
cannot even hint at without hurting you.” 

“Speak what is on your mind, dear mother ; never 
mind hurting me,” said Em., tenderly. 

“ No ; I cannot. But I will give you one little, simple 
rule, easy to remember and easy to follow, for your 
safe guidance among your new companions : Never do 
or say anything that you would not like your mother to see or 
.hear.” 

“ I never will ! Indeed, dear mother, I never, never 
will !” earnestly replied Em. 

“ That is right. Be guided by that rule, my child. 
It is the path of safety.” 



CHAPTER VIII. 

EM. AT THE COMMODORE’S. 

That lonely mansion stood upon a cliff, 

By a great mountain spring — just elevate’ 

Above the winter torrents did it stand, 

Upon a craggy brink ; and now it wore 
One sober hue ; the narrow cleft which wound 
Among the hills was gray with rocks, that peered 
Above its shallow soil ; the mountain side 
Was loose with stones bestrewn, which oftentimes 
Clattered adown the steep, beneath the foot 
Of struggling goat dislodged. 

Southey. 

It was a glorious morning in October when Em., 
amid the kisses, tears and blessings of the whole family, 
left the valley of the Wilderness for her new home on 
the mountain. 

Seated by her father, in the little, old-fashioned 
chaise, drawn by one steady, old, draught horse, and 
with her little trunk, containing all her worldly goods, 
strapped on behind, she commenced her journey. 

They could not go by the way up which Em. had 
watched her lover ride until man and horse disappeared 
in the thicket above, because that was but a narrow 
though nearer bridle-path which led up the mountain 
from the rear of the manor-house and was used only by 
horsemen and foot passengers. 

They drove down the old avenue leading through the 

[ 85 ] 


86 


Em's Husband. 


thick woods that lay between the house and the park 
wall, to the lodge gate, where they found both ’Sias 
and Sereny on duty to bid a final good-by to “ Miss 
Em.” 

She felt for a moment distressed that she had no part- 
ing token of regard to bestow on these attentive friends; 
then she quickly took the clean linen collar and cuffs 
from her neck and wrists, and gave them to Sereny and 
the neatly-folded handkerchief from her pocket and 
bestowed it upon ’Sias. 

Both received these little presents with grateful smiles 
and promised to use them for her sake. 

And both threw old shoes after the chaise, asitpassed 
through the gate and turned to the left. 

“Why, my girl, you have half stripped your neck and 
hands for them darkies. You’ll look a perfect dowdy 
when you get to the commodore’s,” said John, when 
they were out of hearing of the gate-keepers. 

“ Oh, no, father, dear. See, my shawl will cover all 
deficiencies until I reach my journey’s end, and then I 
can get new cuffs and collar from my trunk,” smilingly 
replied Em., as she drew her shepherd’s plaid wrap 
closer around her shoulders. 

Their road ran southward between the mossy gray 
stone wall of the park on the left and the richly colored 
autumn woods on the right. Overhead was the most 
glorious October sky ; underneath a road so thickly 
strewn with fallen leaves that the horse’s hoofs and the 
carriage wheels went softly and silently on. 

Passing the south-east angle of the park wall the road 
continued through the forest, but began gradually to 
ascend the wooded mountain range, half way up which, 
on a natural plateau, was situated the old house. 

The way was very lonely. Sometimes indeed a fox 
squatted on the road before them, startled by their ap- 


Em. at the Commodore s. 


87 


proach, would spring up, scamper off, and disappear in 
the forest. Sometimes a hawk, perched on some bend- 
ing bough above them, frightened by their appearance, 
would take wing with a scream and be lost in the clouds 
afar. 

But such were the only signs of life that met them. 
No human being appeared on this almost totally aban- 
doned road. 

It wound up and up the wooded precipice until all of 
a sudden it came out of the woods and on to the back of 
the old house — a long, low building of gray stone, with- 
out any pretensions to architectural beauty, but with a 
look of spacious, homely comfort that was very attract- 
ive. 

Entering by a side gate and driving over a stony road, 
they came around to the front of the building, which 
stood within a yard bounded by a stone wall, upon the 
very edge of the precipice. . 

A short flight of broad, low stone steps led up to the 
flagged piazza, and thence to the front door of solid oak, 
adorned with a huge iron knocker. 

As there was no one in sight, John Palmer got off his 
seat, fastened his horse and helped Em. to alight. 

Then both went up the steps, and John knocked loudly 
at the door. 

It was opened by an old negro man, who stood silently 
waiting the pleasure of the visitors. 

“ Is your mistress in ?” inquired John. 

“ Yes, sar.” 

“ Then tell her that the young person she expected 
this morning has arrived.” 

“ Yes, sar,” said the old negro, and then bethinking 
himself of proper civility, he added : “ You may walk 
in here and take a seat in de hall, if you please.” 

John Palmer, followed by Em., entered the hall, which 


88 


E in.'s Husband. 


was of the type of nearly all the halls in all the large 
old houses in the country, running through the house, 
with a front door and back, a great staircase in the 
midst, and room doors on either side. 

John and Em. sat down on a heavy oaken settee, 
while the man went off to announce their arrival to his 
mistress. 

“ Em., this is a cold, hard, sterile place, and my heart 
sinks like lead, my girl !” sighed honest John, looking 
about him. 

“ Why should it, father, dear ? Mine doesn’t ! Don’t 
get blue, dear father. Remember, Sunday is the Lord’s 
day, and every Saturday night you are to send Tom for 
me, or come yourself, and I will go home and stay till 
Monday morning — two nights and a day with you, dear 
father,” said Em., cheerfully. 

“ Yes, there is some comfort in that, and if it wasn’t for 
that I should not have let you leave home to come here 
at all,” replied John, just as the old servant re-appeared 
and said : 

<k You is to come inter de back parlor and wait until 
de madam is ready to see you. She will come down 
presently.” 

Once more John and his daughter arose and followed 
their guide. 

He conducted them down the hall, opened a door on 
the right hand, and showed them into a moderate 
sized and plainly furnished room with oak-paneled 
walls and polished oak floor, and with a broad fire- 
place, on which burned a fire of huge hickory logs. 
This fireplace was flanked by two deep recesses, in one 
of which stood a carved oaken beaufet, full of old china, 
and in the other stood a cabinet with glass doors, be- 
hind which might be seen a collection of small curi- 


Em. at the Commodore s. 89 


osities from all quarters of the world, brought by Com- 
modore Bruce from his various voyages. 

Two large easy-chairs, covered with flowered chintz, 
were drawn up to the fireplace, before which lay a rich 
Turkey rug. 

John placed himself in one of these, and Em. in the 
other. 

She was busily employed in gazing at the old, old 
china in the beaufet on her right, and curiosities in the 
cabinet on her left, when the door opened and Mrs. 
Bruce sailed in. 

“ Sailed,” is the only term to use in regard to the car- 
riage of this lady, so smooth and majestic was her motion. 

“ Ah, my dear, you are very punctual. I am glad to 
see you,” she said, taking the hand of Em., and then 
nodding graciously to John, who arose and bowed, and 
remained standing while he said : 

“ Well, madam, I have brought my girl to you accord- 
ing to her promise. If she should not happen to suit, 
just drop me a word by one of your grooms, and I’ll come 
and fetch her home with more pleasure than I have 
brought her here.” 

“ Oh, I have no doubt in the world that she will suit 
me excellently well,” said the lady, smiling at the blunt- 
ness of John, and looking kindly upon Em. 

“ I will try my best to please you, madam,” said the 
girl. 

“ I am not very hard to please, little one,” replied the 
lady. 

“ But in any case, I shall be here Saturday night at 
six o’clock to take my girl home to spend the Sabbath,” 
said John, who could not help feeling in a very unchris- 
tian and aggressive humor ; for why should this proud 
lady have the light of his eyes, the core of his heart, his 


90 


Em!s Husband. 


darling little Em., merely because she wanted her serv- 
ices, and was rich enough to pay for them ? 

John felt himself rapidly growing into an agrarian, a 
communist, a revolutionist, or any other sort of incen- 
diary Satan should desire to make of him. 

“ There can be no objection at all to that. Indeed, if 
you like, you can come at an earlier hour,” replied Mrs. 
Bruce. 

“ I thank you, ma’am ; but I will come at six o’clock, 
the regular hour for knocking off work all over the 
world, I believe,” answered John, who did not wish to 
receive any favors. 

Then he went up to his daughter, took her in his arms 
and kissed her heartily, put her down, caught up his hat 
from the floor, bowed to the lady and abruptly departed. 

“Your father does not like to part with you,” said 
Mrs. Bruce. 

“ No, madam ; and this is the first time I have ever 
left home,” respectfully replied Em. 

“ Why does he consent for you to leave home when 
he is so reluctant to lose sight of you ?” 

“ He yields to my wish, and to what he considers my 
mother’s better judgment in all matters that relate to 
her daughters.” 

“Ah, then you wished to come to me.” 

“ Yes, indeed, madam !” said Em. with an ardor that 
almost touched familiarity. 

But the lady took no offence. She seemed rather 
pleased than otherwise, as she added : 

“ And so your mother sided with yourself ?” 

“ Yes, madam.” 

“ I hope that neither of you will regret your choice. 
Your duties here will not be heavy. We breakfast at 
eight. After breakfast you will sew until luncheon time 
— one o’clock — then take an hour for rest or recreation, 


Em. at the Commodores. 91 


and then sew until the dinner — six o’clock — after which 
you have the remainder of the day and the night to 
yourself. When we have no company besides the friends 
staying in the house, you will take your meals with us. 
And now I will ring for a servant to show you your 
room,” said the lady, suiting the action to the word. 

A good-looking young colored girl answered the call. 

“ Liza, show Miss Palmer here to the southwest room 
in the attic, and have her trunk carried up there, and 
wait until she is ready to come down, and then bring 
her to my room. Do you understand ?’’ inquired Mrs. 
Bruce. 

“ Oh, yes’m,” replied the servant. 

“ I will see you soon, then,” said the lady, as she passed 
out of the parlor. 

“ Come long o’ me, Miss, an’ I’ll take you to Cuba,” 
said the colored girl, showing all her teeth as she smiled. 

“ Cuba ?” echoed Em. in bewilderment. 

“Yes, Miss, which I means de sou’wes’ room in de 
attic, as de madam tell me to take — which de ole marse 
he do call Cuba ’cause de sun do shine dere mos’ all day 
an’ make it warm,” the girl explained, as she left the 
parlor. 

“ That is quite fanciful,” observed Em., as she followed 
her guide. 

“ Yes, Miss, I s’pose it mus’ be somefin like dat — which 
de ole marster do call ebery room in de house after some 
furrin country as he had to sail to when he used to go 
down to de high seas in de big .ships,” continued Liza, 
as they went on. 

They climbed two flights of stairs and reached the 
attic floor, which, like all the lower ones, had a broad 
hall running through it from front to back, with two 
large rooms on each side. 

“ Are all these rooms named after foreign countries ?” 


92 


Em! s Husband. 


inquired Em., as she stood in the spacious hall, which 
was lighted by a large window at each end. 

“ Yes, Miss ; and this here sow’wes’ one, which is to 
be yourn, is Cuba, ’cause its de warmest." 

“ And the one back of mine — the southeast room — 
what is that called ?” 

“ Oh ! Loosy anny, ’cause it’s warm an’ damp. An’ 
de rooms on de norf side ob de hall is — well, less see — 
de sow-ees’ room is called Greenlan’, and de now-wes’ is 
’Laska.” 

“ I declare, that is quite interesting, Liza. When we 
have time, I will get you to tell me the names of all the 
rooms in the house, but now introduce me into Cuba, 
and then please have my trunk sent up right away.” 

“Yes, Miss, I will. Here is your room,” answered 
the little maid, opening the door of the southwest 
room. 

Em. entered it, and made a little exclamation of sur- 
prise and pleasure. It was a very attractive bower, if 
it was in the attic — a spacious chamber, with white- 
washed walls, a sloping roof, a clean, bare floor, with 
rugs lying here and there ; a broad fireplace, with a 
good fire of logs ; four deep dormer windows, two look- 
ing to the west, out upon the cedar-wooded ascent of 
the mountain, and two looking south, down the river, 
with a view of the opposite wooded, hilly shore, and a 
distant sight of the beautiful island. 

The old-fashioned four-post bedstead, the tall chest 
of drawers, the “press ” and the three-cornered wash- 
stand, the tables and the chairs were all of maple. The 
window curtains and the chair-covers were of yellow, 
flowered calico. 

Altogether, the attic room had a spacious, cheerful, 
homely look that perfectly contented its new occupant. 

She took off her shawl, folded it and put it away in 


Em . at the Commodore s. 


93 


one of the press shelves and placed her bonnet beside 
it. 

And by the time Em. had bathed her face and hands 
and brushed her hair, the colored girl re-appeared, 
accompanied by a strong man bringing the trunk. 

Em. only detained Liza long enough to open her 
trunk and take from it a clean, white linen collar and 
pair of cuffs, which .she added to her simple dress 
of brown merino. 

Then she followed the colored girl down stairs to a 
spacious, handsomely furnished chamber on the second 
floor, where she found Mrs. Bruce alone and busily 
engaged in cutting out work for her new seamstress. 

She spoke very kindly to Em., told her where .she 
could sit down, and then she filled her hands with 
needle-work and placed a pile on a standing work- 
basket at her side, and said : 

“ I am now going down stairs to my guests. It is 
ten o’clock. The lunch bell will ring at one. You 
can then come down and join us. You can easily find 
your way to the dining-room — it is the back room on 
the north side of the house. 

“Thank you, madam. Yes, I can easily find it,” 
said Em. 

Mrs. Bruce went down to the drawing-room and Em. 
stitched for three hours, her fingers busy with her 
needle-work, her thoughts with Ronald Bruce. She 
felt sure that he had instigated his mother to engage 
her, only for the sake of having her near him, and she 
rejoiced in the thought. 

She never seriously reflected now how this love 
might end. It was happiness enough for the present to 
know that she was under the same roof with her lover, 
and that she would be sure to see him several times a 
day for weeks to coma 


94 


Em! s Husband. 


So she sat and stitched diligently, smiling dreamily 
over her work until the luncheon bell rang. 

Then she sprang up, smoothed her dress and her 
hair, and tripped down stairs to the dining-room 
where the luncheon-table was spread. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.” 

The course of true love never yet ran smooth ; 

For either 'twould be different in blood, 

Or else misgrafted in respect of years, 

Or else it stood upon the choice of friends ; 

Or, if there is a unity in all, 

War, death or sickness will lay siege to it. 

Shakespeare. 

But the family had not yet assembled. There was 
but one person in the room, and he sprang to meet her, 
caught both of her hands, and would have saluted her 
with a kiss, but that the quick, forbidding look in the 
young girl’s eyes arrested him. 

“ Well, well, I won’t, then !” he said ; “ but, oh, Em., 
I am so enraptured to see you ! And did I not manage 
beautifully? As soon as I had got home from Annapolis, 
where that interminable investigation detained me so 
long, I was positively determined to have you here ! 
So, my dear, having purposely left the bulk of my 
wardrobe behind, I told my mother that I had scarcely 
the thread of a garment left, and must have several 
made up immediately. My poor mother, who is as new 
to this neighborhood as you or I, was immediately 
driven to her wit’s end for the want of a seamstress, a 


95 


“ The Course of True Love." 


I knew she would be ! So I recommended John 
Palmer’s daughters, knowing full well that there was 
but one among them who could suit my mother. So 
here you are, my love ; and if I succeed in my plans, 
from here you will never go again without me ! But, 
hush ! here is somebody else,” said Ronald, as old Com- 
modore Bruce came into the room. 

, He was very much bowed and broken — his head was 
bald on the top, with a light fringe of silver-gray hair 
around his temples and the nape of his neck. He wore 
a dressing-gown of flowered, India silk, wadded and 
lined, and confined around the waist with a crimson 
silk cord and tassel. He stooped over his large, gold- 
headed cane as he walked. 

Some men soon recover from severe bereavements, 
others never do. Commodore Bruce belonged to the 
latter class. He had never rallied from the overwhelm- 
ing grief of Lonny’s loss. 

Every year, on his son’s birthday, he had said : 

“ If my Lonny were now alive he would be this old.” 

And only in the beginning of that year he had said : 

“ Ah ! if my poor Lonny were alive now, he would 
be thirty-five years old. In the very prime and pride 
of life, in the vigor and glory of his manhood !” 

Commodore Bruce came in slowly, leaning on his 
cane, as I said, and looking keenly from side to side, as 
if to see who was in the room, for his sight was always 
dim. 

“ Ah ! nobody here scarcely. These women are 
always unpunctual. They need a little navy discipline 
to train them. But who is this ? Who is this, Ronald ?” 
he exclaimed, as his eyes fell upon Em. 

“ This is Miss Palmer, a young lady my mother has 
staying with her,” said young Bruce, not quite frankly. 

“ Oh ! how do you do, my dear. I am very glad to 


9 6 


Em's Husband. 


see you. I hope you will enjoy yourself among us,” 
said the old man, with formal politeness, taking her 
handj yet scarcely looking in her face. 

“ I thank you, sir, but I am only Mrs. Bruce’s seam- 
stress,” said Em., amending Ronald’s little error. 

“ Eh ?” exclaimed the commodore, looking more atten- 
tively in her face. 

Em. repeated her assertion. 

But Commodore Bruce was not listening to her words, 
or caring for them. He was gazing in her face as if he 
were transfixed. 

At length he recovered himself, found his voice, and 
said : 

“ I beg your pardon, my dear,, but I seem to have seen 
you somewhere else long before this.” 

“ Yes, sir, you did — in the city, more than a year ago, 
when you were at the Indian Queen Hotel, and I carried 
home some shirts to you,” said Em. 

“ Ay — ay — ay — ay ! I remember that ! But this was 
long, long before ! Yet no, you could not be so old ! 
It must be some one whom you closely resemble, that I 
remember and am thinking of ! Yes — ves ! I know now ! 
Ah ! that poor, unhappy one ! What has ever become 
of her ? Where lies her broken heart ? And she was 
my Lonny’s last charge to me before he left me for the 
last time. ‘ Father,’ he said, ‘ for my sake be kind to 
poor Emolyn !’ Ah 3 she was my poor boy’s sweetheart, 
I doubt ! But she is gone ! gone ! This girl looks like 
her ! Looks as she did before that blasting calamity 
fell upon her ! An accidental likeness ! The world is 
full of such ! Yet I wish I had not seen it I” murmured 
the old man, in a musing tone. 

Ronald Bruce led him to a chair, placed him in it, 
took the cane from his hand and set it up, and then 
gave him a glass of wine. 



M 


“VOU HAVE BEEN READING TO CLOSED EARS, 


See JPaye 102 , 




























































' 

* 

























■ 






i 

- ■ . 





* 




















* - : 













“ The Course of Ti 'ue Love . 


97 


When the old man had drank this, he seemed to be 
revived, for he turned to Em. and said : 

“ Do not let my lucubrations disturb you, child !” 

At that moment Mrs. Bruce and two other ladies en- 
tered the room. 

Em. looked up, and, to her intense amazement, 
caught the eye of her former teacher, Mrs. Templeton. 

“ Why, Emolyn Palmer ?” she exclaimed, in astonish- 
ment equal to Em.’s own. “ Is it possible that this is 
you , my dear ? -Why, how came you to be here ?” 

“ I am Mrs. Bruce’s new seamstress,” answered Em., 
simply. 

“ You are ! Well, I knew that she had taken a young 
girl in the house to sew, and I believe I heard she was 
the daughter of one Palmer who was overseer at the 
Wilderness Manor ; but I had no idea that it was you , 
my dear ! I am very glad to see you again ! And here 
is Hermia, who will be equally well pleased to meet her 
old school-mate,” concluded Mrs. Templeton, as her 
daughter joined th'em. 

“Yes, indeed, I am very happy to see you so unex- 
pectedly, Em.,” cordially exclaimed Miss Templeton, 
who had developed into a tall, queenly brunette 
of about nineteen years of age. 

“ And oh ! I am so glad and so very much surprised to 
see you, Miss Hermia,” heartily exclaimed Em., squeez- 
ing the offered hand of the young lady. 

“ Why, did you not know that my mother was Com- 
modore Bruce’s only sister ? And that when he retired 
from the navy and settled down here he took her from 
her school and brought her here to keep house for 
him ?” inquired Hermia, still holding the hand of her 
little school-mate. 

“ Oh, I knew, at least I had heard, that Mrs. Templeton 
had a brother in the navy who had sent her son to the 


98 


Em's Husband, 


naval academy, and afterwards I heard that she had re- 
signed her situation as teacher of the public school, and 
had gone to live with her brother ; but I had not the 
least suspicion that it was Commodore Bruce !” said 
Em., still gazing with surprised eyes. 

“Oh yes !” said Hermia, laughing. “And here we 
•; found my aunt, Mrs. David Bruce, his brother’s widow 
and her son Ronald. They are not rival queens, 
although this is but one kingdom and cannot be divided. 
No; though they are both here, there is" no rivalry, and 
you will soon know the reason,” concluded Hermia, as 
she gave her friend’s hand a hearty squeeze. 

Mrs. Templeton, who had crossed the room to speak 
to Mrs. Bruce, now came back to Em., and again 
expressed her joy in meeting the girl. 

As for Em., she was bewildered with happiness. 

Every one spoke gently to her ; every one smiled on 
her. She was received into the family circle more like 
a dear young relative than as a dependent. 

But then the girl was so fair and lovely in person and 
manner, that no one could have treated her with cold- 
ness or indifference. 

And as for Ronald Bruce, who looked on all this from 
the opposite side of the room with the air of a careless 
spectator, he was really filled with delight at the success 
of his experiment. 

“ She will win all hearts,” he said to himself ; “ and 
being quick-witted as well as gentle and refined, she 
will soon catch the ‘ shibboleth ’ of our set — the thous- 
and and one almost inscrutable and quite indescribable 
absurdities — 

That mark the caste of Vere de Vere.’ 

Dear girl ! For myself I should only be too glad to in- 
troduce her into any society. And as to the old folks 


The Course of True Love. 


99 


putting their heads together, and setting their hearts on 
making a match between me and my Cousin Hermia — 
that is perfect nonsense! We like each other well 
enough; but we won’t marry each other. We’d die 
i first!” 

While Ronald Bruce was ruminating, the old commo- 
dore was growing impatient for his lunch. 

“ Well, well, Catherine ! Well, well, Margaret ! what 
are we waiting for now ?” he testily inquired. 

“ Only for Mrs. and Miss Warde,” replied Mrs. Bruce. 

“ These women ! These women ! They have no 
idea of the duty of punctuality ! Ah ! a little training 
on board a man-o’-war would improve their habits.” 

As the old man spoke, Belinda Warde entered the 
room, apologizing, and saying : 

“ Mamma is not very well ; but she will be down in 
a few moments, and begs that you will not wait.” 

“ I am sorry to hear that. But take your seats. She 
will join us presently,” said the commodore. 

Belinda was now about thirty-five years old, a superb 
brunette, like her mother, and being well-preserved and 
well-dressed, she still passed among those who did not 
know her age as a young lady. 

She stared for an instant at the little stranger in their 
midst, until Hermia said : 

“ This is a school-mate of mine — Miss Palmer — who 
has come to assist Aunt Bruce.” 

“ Oh !” said the young lady, and took her seat at the 
table, which was now full but for the vacant chair wait- 
ing for Mrs. Warde. 

The meal progressed, but the absent lady did not 
make her appearance. 

A servant was sent up to ask her if she would have 
refreshments served in her room. 

An answer was returned declining the offer with 


IOO 


Em.' s Husband. 


thanks, and desiring that the company would excuse 
her. 

“ Whimsical,” whispered the old commodore, confi- 
dentially to his own white beard, as he finished his 
“ mayonaise.” 

The luncheon was an informal meal, and one by one 
the party around the table dropped off, until no one was 
left but the commodore, his sister-in-law and Em., who, 
though she had finished eating, sat there because she 
was too timid to get up and leave while Mrs. Bruce 
remained. 

Finally the three arose together, and Em. was about 
to hurry up to her needle-work, when the old commo- 
dore arrested her steps by saying : 

“ Stop, my dear ; with my sister’s leave here, I want 
you to read the newspapers for me ; the boy brought 
them from the post-office just before we sat down 
to lunch and they are not opened yet. Follow me 
to my study.” 

Em. stood still in perplexity and looked from the 
commodore to the lady. 

“ My dear brother, I, Ronald, or, indeed, any of 
us, will be most happy to be your reader, as we always 
have been,” said Mrs. Bruce, hesitatingly. 

“ Oh, yes, I know ! I know ! But this child has 
a sweet, fresh voice very pleasant to hear. So 1 am sure 
she can read most agreeably. I prefer to try her at any 
rate — that is, if you have no objection, madam,” added 
the old man, in a tone that warned his sister-in-law she 
must make no more opposition to his wishes. 

“ Oh, of course , I have no objection, sir. I am only 
to happy if any one in my employment can be of 
the least service to you, to whom I owe so much. Miss 
Palmer,” she said, turning to Em., “attend Commodore 
Bruce to his study.” 


“ The Coil rse of True Love. 


IOI 


“ Come here on my left, child,” said the old man. 

Em. obeyed. 

Then, leaning with his right hand upon his stick, and 
with his left upon Em.’s shoulder, he walked slowly 
from the dining-room, crossed the hall and passed into 
his study, which was in fact a handsome library in the 
southwest corner of the first floor. 

Supported by Em. and his stick, he walked to a long 
table in the middle of the room and dropped into 
a large chair beside it. 

On the table before him lay several newspapers still 
in their envelopes. He opened them one by one, and 
spread them out. 

“ Now, my child, draw up a chair and seat yourself 
on my right side — I am as deaf as a post on my left — 
and begin and read me the news.” 

‘‘Where shall I begin?” softly inquired Em., when 
she had seated herself, and unfolded the paper. “ Shall 
I read the speech of — ” 

“ Oh, bother, no ; don’t ; read the news — the murders, 
suicides, arsons, burglaries, robberies, and so forth ; 
and if you can find any, the opposite sort of things 
— the rescues, the reconciliations, the benefactions, and 
so on ! Only don’t read speeches !” replied the com- 
modore. 

Em. looked all over the paper and found a long sen- 
sational account of a great fire and the rescue of a fam- 
ily of children by a brave fireman, who saved them at 
the imminent hazard of his own life. 

Next she read of the discovery of a silver mine in the 
mountains of Virginia, which the old man instantly 
pronounced to be a hoax. 

Then of the laying of the corner-stone of a poor 
children’s hospital, 


102 


Em's Husband. 


But before she got through with this, Em.’s flute-like 
voice had lulled the old man to rest. 

Missing his comments at last, she looked up, and 
found him fast asleep in his chair, and Ronald Bruce 
standing before her with his eyes full of laughter. 

“You have been reading to closed ears for about ten 
minutes, Em.,” said the young man. 

“ Oh ! is he asleep ? Must I go ?” inquired the girl, 
dropping her paper and preparing to rise. 

“ He is asleep ; but you must not upon any account 
go until he wakes up and dismisses you ! Don’t be 
afraid, however ! 7’11 stay and keep your company.” 

Em. looked perplexed, confused and utterly uncertain 
what to say. 

“ Dear Em., keep your seat ; I have got something that 
I must tell you in a plain, honest, straightforward way, 
even although you may know it well enough already. 
May I tell you now, this moment ?” inquired the young 
man, as he drew a foot-stool and seated himself at the 
feet of the sleeping veteran, and very near to her also, 
it must be confessed. 

“ Dear Em., dearest Em., may I tell you now ?” he 
repeated. 

“ Ronald, is it anything you would tell me in the pre- 
sence of my mother ?” timidly questioned the girl. 

“Yes ! in the presence of the whole world, if neces- 
sary ?” 

“ Well, then — say on,” whispered Em. 

“ Em. Palmer, 1 haven’t been like other young fellows, 
falling in and out of love with almost every pretty girl 
I ever saw, since I was five years old ! No ! I have 
been to sea ever since I was a child, and I never, never, 
never knew what it was to love a girl, the least in the 
world, until I met you.” 

“Oh J do please don’t talk so ! I know you wouldn’t 


103 


“ The Course of True Love 


talk so to me if my mother was sitting there right 
before us !” murmured Em., beginning to tremble. 

“ May I never be saved, if I would not ! I would tell 
you I love you if all the mothers, fathers, aunts, and 
uncles, and guardians in Christendom were sitting on 
stiff, high-backed chairs in a circle around us ! There ! 
| For it is the blessed truth ! I do love you, Em., with 
jail my heart and soul and life ! I began to love you 
from the first moment I ever saw you ! Yes, and I per- 
ceived that you also began to love me about the same 
time !” he added, triumphantly. 

“ Oh, Ronald,” breathed Em., her face dyed with 
blushes, “ was I so forward ?” 

“‘Forward!’ No. You little, sensitive plant. The 
opposite of all that — so shrinking you were ! But, oh, 
Em., I began to love you from the first moment I ever 
saw you, and I have loved you more and more ever 
since; and the more I have loved you the more my 
spirit has gone forth in good-will to all the world. My 
heart was as pure and fresh as your own, Em., and no 
heart could be purer and fresher when I gave it to you; 
and that heart has remained as true and constant as 
your own, Em., through these years of absence and 
silence, when no word of love, or of plighted faith had 
passed between us !” 

“ Oh, Ronald, Ronald, I am so frightened,” she mur- 
mured. 

“ Why should you be even uneasy ? Listen, love ! 
Listen, loveliest ! By all the signs I have told you do 
I know that ours is the real, true, holy, heavenly love, 
and not one of its plausible counterfeits.” 

“ Oh, Ronald, is it right for you to talk to me in this 
way,” she breathed. 

“ Right ? It is righteous !” 

“Ah, how can it end ? You are a young gentleman 


104 


Em'.s Husband. 


of rank and wealth; I, a poor, half educated girl, the 
child of a man of the laboring classes." 

“ I do not care ! I will tell you how it will end, Em. 

It will end in our happy marriage. In the first place, 
let me tell you that I am of age, and no one, however 
near and dear^ however rich and influential, shall con- 
trol my choice in that which would be the most impor- 
tant act of my life and the nearest to my heart. I will 
not lead you into any disobedience, Em. If the old j 
folks do object to our union, I will wait until you are 
of age, and then I will marry you, love — I will, Em., I 
will, ‘ Though mammy and daddy and a’ gang mad !’ 
Yes! though my crotchety old kinsman here should 
disinherit and turn me out of the house, get me dis- 
charged from the navy, and leave me to earn our living 
by breaking stones on the highway. If you will only 
be constant, Em., as I know you will be, I will marry 
you in spite of them all. I will marry you in spite of 
fate and fortune; and I don’t care a button who hears 
me say so ! Oh !” 

This last exclamation was called forth by the sight 
of old Commodore Bruce sitting straight up in his 
chair, very wide awake, and staring at them. 



CHAPTER X. 

SURPRISE. 

The spell, 

The mightiest upon earth — the spell of love, 
Familiar, mutual, requited love — 

Shall be upon thee ; and its charmed power 
Shall at each moment, at a wish, call up 
More wealth than ever crossed the desert sands. 
Gems, purer, costlier far than Araby's ; 

Unsunned treasures from that richest mine, 

The human heart, Pocahontas. 

“ 1 Oh !’ ” echoed the old man, while the young people 
looked at him aghast. Eh ? What? It seems I’ve been 
nodding and you’ve caught me ! Very rude of me to 
fall asleep while you were reading my dear ! You 
might have won a pair of gloves, eh ?” 

It was evident from the commodore’s words that he 
had not heard a word of Donald Bruce’s reckless talk, 
but had indeed but just at that instant waked up. 

“ I hope you had a refreshing nap, sir,” said Em., 
who was the first to recover her self-possession. 

“ Yes — yes — yes — yes ! I had a very refreshing nap ! 
Brief, but very refreshing. ‘ Forty winks,’ as the say- 
ing is, you know my dear ; just lost myself, that is all !” 
said the old man, apparently unconscious that he had 
been sound asleep for two hours. 

[105] 


io6 


Em's Hies band. 


“ I hope you feel revived, sir,” said Ronald now 
plucking up heart. 

“ Yes — yes, quite so ! But how the deuce did you 
come here, Ronald ? What do you want ?” demanded 
the commodore, bethinking himself now of the unex- 
pected presence of his nephew. 

“ I want to go to Grayrock this afternoon. Will you 
let me have Warlock ?” inquired the young man, with 
quick invention. 

“'Now Ronald !” testily exclaimed the elder, “why 
will you reiterate a request that you know, for your own 
sake, I must deny ? No ! You cannot have that four- 
legged fiend ! No ! I will not have your neck broken 
during my lifetime, by any concession of mine. No ! 
Once for all, you can not, and you never can have War- 
lock ! You may ride any other horse in the stable — in 
fact, you may ride any other four-footed creature on the 
estate, and you know it. But you sha’n’t risk your life 
on Warlock,” emphatically declared the commodore, 
bringing down his doubled fist with force upon the table 
as a finality. 

‘‘Very well, sir ; of course you must be obeyed,” said 
Ronald, with a slight shrug of his handsome shoulders. 
“ I shall not, however, take any of the other horses. If 
I cannot have Warlock I do not care to take a ride to- 
day.” 

“ No ! I thought you only wished to go to Grayrock 
for the sake of risking your precious neck on Warlock’s 
vicious back. But you shall not do it. I shall sell that 
horse the first chance I get. Now, then, go about your 
business, Ronald, and send my man here. It is time 
to dress for dinner. You may go, also, my dear ; but 
don’t go back to my sister-in-law and sit down to sew- 
ing, I command you. And, mind, my commands are 
paramount on this ship! You have been sitting enough 


Sitrpi'ise . 


107 


to-day, for a young one. Go now and take a turn in 
the fresh air of the grounds. There ! Be off with you 
both. ’SCAT ! !” 

The conscience-stricken young pair hurried from the 
library by different doors — Ronald going out into the 
hall, and Em. descending the steps through a French 
window thaj: opened upon the front yard. 

That yard so widely different from all the other 
house-yards she had ever seen in her life; that yard so 
savage in rocky desolation, so sublime in magnificent 
prospect. 

The house, as I said, stood upon a natural plateau 
about half way up the front of the precipice, directly 
overhanging the river. The yard extended some thirty 
feet, to the extreme edge of the precipice, which was 
defended by a stone wall about breast high. There 
was no gate or outlet from this front wall. The ap- 
proach to the house, as I told you, was from behind, 
and the entrance to the yard was at the side. 

Em. walked to the wall, leaned over it, and looked 
down the sheer descent of a wooded steep a thousand 
feet to the river that flowed at its foot. What abysms 
of darkness and mystery were in the depths of the 
shadowy foliage so far below ! There, in those deep 
caverns, doubtless, the wild-cat made her lair and 
reared her young;, there, among those gray crags, the 
eagle built her nest and brooded over her eggs. No 
gentler creatures of the earth or air could surely find 
their homes among such savage desolation, thought 
Em., as she stood leaning over the wall and gazing- 
down the dreadful descent. 

At length she raised her eyes and looked around, and 
beheld a prospect magnificent beyond all words to por- 
tray. Spread out before her was the beautiful valley, 
with the river flowing in the midst, and the undulating, 


io8 


Em's Husband. 


wooded hills rising beyond, all now royally arrayed in 
the gorgeous hues of autumn, and refulgently lighted 
up by the glorious rays of the setting sun. 

Ahl how brief are the moments of such splendid 
effects ! 

Even as Em. gazed the sun sank down behind the 
mountains at her back, and all the valley faded into 
twilight. 

Em. turned away and walked around the side of the 
house and passed to the rear. 

There the precipice presented a different aspect. In- 
stead of descending to the river it ascended to the 
clouds, and from a fissure in the rock, to the left of the 
stables, sprang a fountain that grew in volume as it fell 
from rock to rock, and rushed roaring into the river 
below. 

Em. knew — because she had heard, in the conversa- 
tion between Ronald Bruce and her father on that 
evening when the former had stayed all night in the 
old manor-house — that the cultivated farms belonging 
to The Breezes estate were all in the valley below, and 
that these mountain ranges were only valuable for their 
quarries of blue limestone ; but she wondered exceed- 
ingly at the eccentricity of the first proprietor, who had 
built his dwelling-house on this mere shelf of rock half 
way up the mountain side, with an ascending precipice 
behind it, and a descending precipice before it. 

She remained out until the twilight faded into dark- 
ness, and then she went into the house and ran up to 
her attic chamber, where the care of the little colored 
girl Liza, had already lighted two wax candles and set 
them on the toilet-table, and had mended the wood fire 
which burned brightly on the hearth. 

Em. brushed her hair and ran a narrow, blue ribbon 
through its brown ringlets, then put a blue bow to the 


Surprise . 169 


meeting of her linen collar ; and so, having made the 
best toilet she could for dinner with well-dressed ladies 
she put out her candles and left the room to go down 
stairs. 

The upper halls were dimly lighted, each by a little 
lamp at the back end. 

Em. had just reached the landing on the second story 
and was hurrying down the hall; when a door on the 
left opened, and a tall, dark, handsome woman, richly 
dressed, but looking older than either Mrs. Bruce or 
Mrs. Templeton, came out and carelessly approached 
Em. 

They stood face to face. The lady lifted her eyes 
haughtily to those of the girl that for the moment stood 
in her way. But when their gaze met the lady’s great 
black eyes dilated wide with terror, with horror ! Her 
face blanched to the pallor of death, her frame shook as 
with an ague. 

“ Begone !” she shrieked. “ Why do you come to 
haunt me ?” 

And with these words she fell to the floor. 

Em. paralyzed by amazement, stood speechless and 
motionless over the woman whom she had so involun- 
tarily appalled and overwhelmed ! 

But the shriek and the fall had startled others. 
Four opposite doors flew open, and four women rushed 
out of their rooms to see what was the matter, and to 
behold Em. standing like a statue of Fear over the 
prostrate form of Malvina Warde. 

“In the name of Heaven, what does all this mean, 
Miss Palmer !” demanded Mrs. Bruce, stooping to ex- 
amine the condition of her guest, while Mrs. Templeton, 
Hermia, and Belinda gathered around them. 

“ She has fainted,” said Mrs. Templeton. 


I 10 


Em.'s Husband. 


The four women raised the unconscious form and 
laid it on the hall lounge. 

“How did this happen, Miss Palmer?’' inquired Mrs. 
Bruce, while they all began to use the common methods 
of reviving a swooning woman — bathing her head, beat- 
ing her hands, and applying sal volatile to her nose. 

“ Why don’t you answer, Miss Palmer ?” demanded 
Mrs. Bruce, without pausing in her efforts. 

“ I — I don’t know,” stammered the frightened girl.“ I 
had just run down stairs and turned around when I 
met this lady coming out of that door. We came on 
each other suddenly, and she stared, and screamed and 
fell. I think she took me for a ghost.” 

“It is very strange,” said Mrs. Templeton; “but, 
then, Malvina has had heart disease for some years, 
and a little thing startles her.” 

“ Do not be alarmed. Mamma is subject to these 
fainting fits,” said Belinda Warde; “ lay her head quite 
low and she will soon recover.” 

They followed the daughter’s advice, and the mother 
gave signs of returning consciousness. 

“ You had better go down, my dear. Since it was 
the sight of you that first startled her, you had better 
not be one of the first objects that her eyes meet on 
opening,” said Mrs. Templeton. 

Gladly enough Em. left the circle and went down- 
stairs. A feeling of repulsion had come over her at the 
sight of that woman, for which she could in no way 
account. 

“It is strange, and unjust, and sinful,” said the girl 
to herself, as she tripped down stairs. “ That woman 
never did me any harm in all the days of my life ! She 
never even knew me any more than I did her, and yet 
it is true that I feel such a loathing of her as I never 
felt for any living creature before. I must pray it 


Sttrprise. 


1 1 1 


away! It will not do ! I will not have hatrfed in my 
heart — particularly such a wicked, unnatural, and un- 
reasonable hatred as this. I will do that lady every 
kind service I possibly can, and I will try to overcome 
this sudden hatred of an inoffensive stranger.” 

In the lower hall she found Ronald Bruce, standing 
and staring upward. 

“ What is the row up stairs ? Was it a mouse, or a 
spider, or a candle moth, that caused all that screaming 
and running ?” he inquired. 

“Oh ! Ronald, it was I,” said Em., compunctiously. 

“ You ! What did you do ?” 

“ Oh ! I suppose I came running down the attic stairs 
too swiftly and too silently — ” 

“ Were you expected to creep down noisily, like an 
old cripple on crutches !” laughingly demanded the 
young man. 

“ Nonsense, Ronald ! You must know I glided down 
and met Mrs. Warde in the gloom, and she screamed 
and fainted.” 

“ Was that it ? Ha, ha, ha.” 

“Don’t laugh, Ronald. She took me for a ghost.” 

“ Then she must have a bad conscience, that is all I 
can say about it ! Em., I hate that woman !” 

“ Don’t, Roiiald. That is wicked, even supposing 
she ever injured you, which perhaps she never did.” 

“ No, she never did. *Nor did ever snakes or scorpions 
injure me, yet I hate them ; and I hate that woman as 
I hate them, with an instinctive hatred.” 

“ We should not hate anything; we should not permit 
the feeling of hate to take any root in our hearts,” 
began Em., but before she could preach her bit of a 
sermon she was interrupted by the appearance of Com- 
modore Bruce, who came out of his study to cross the 
hall on his way to the drawing-room. 


I 12 


Em's Husband ’ 


“ What was the matter just now ? Which of the 
women was in hysterics ?” he carelessly inquired. 

“ Mrs. Warde met Miss Palmer in the twilight, and 
taking her for a ghost, screamed and fainted,” replied 
Ronald. 

“ Humph ! I don’t wonder, seeing that she persecuted 
to death one who was as much like Miss Palmer as 
though they had been twin sisters. Ah, well !” said 
the old man to himself, as he passed on his way, “ I 
am only a little less culpable than herself, seeing that 
I should have looked after the orphan girl whom my 
poor lad loved and committed to my charge with his 
parting words. I have often wondered what he meant 
when he said that he would have something to tell me 
which would surprise and please me, but that his lips 
were sealed by honor until he should return from his 
three years’ voyage — that voyage, ah, Heaven ! from 
which he never came back ! I often suspected that 
that unfortunate child was — But what is the use of 
speculating ? The poor boy is gone, the girl is lost, and 
the child is dead. The past is beyond recall, and 
therefore beyond regret,” concluded the commodore, as 
he passed to his arm-chair in the drawing-room. 

Em. had followed him, and naturally Ronald had fol- 
lowed Em., and while she busied her nimble fingers by 
arranging the books and bijouterie on the centre table, 
Ronald stood by her side. 

The dinner-bell rang. 

‘•Now, where are all these women ? Unpunctual as 
usual. I wish I had them all on board a man-of-war in 
the middle of the Atlantic ocean ! I’d train ’em into 
punctuality ? Where are they, I wonder ?” 

“They are attending to Mrs. Warde, I think, sir,*’ 
said Em. soothingly. 

“ Attending to Mrs. Warde ? Does it take four able- 


Surprise. 


1 1 3 


bodied women to attend to a single hysterical one ? Let 
’em throw a pitcher of cold water over her head-* that 
will fetch her to,” growled the old man, as he arose 
from his seat and took his cane and crept towards the 
dining-room, followed by Em., who was pursued by 
Donald. 

“You always run after uncle! You never stay 
behind a moment to let me’ have a word alone with 
you,” complained the young man. 

“ No, because it is not right for me to do so,” replied 
Em. 

“ What !* Not when we are engaged to be married ?” 
he whispered. 

“We are not engaged. We cannot be engaged with- 
out the consent of parents and friends,” said Em. 

“ Eh ! Why, did I not swear to marry you, whether or 
no ?” he hurriedly whispered, for the ladies of the 
household were hastening down stairs, and before Em. 
could reply they were close behind the lovers. 

They all entered the lighted dining-room together 
and seated themselves at the table. 

“ Well ! How is Malvina ? Got over her fainting 
fit ?” inquired the commodore, as he seated himself at 
the foot of the table. 

“ No, not entirely ; but she is lying down in her room 
carefully watched ovef by Liza. She will not be able 
to join us this evening,” replied Mrs. Bruce. 

“ Humph !” exclaimed the commodore, neither very 
sympathetically nor credulously. 

When dinner was over the family adjourned to the 
drawing-room. The old man settled himself in his arm- 
chair and went to sleep. Belinda Warde placed herself 
beside Roland Bruce, and with something like her 
mother's powers of fascination, held him bound for 
hours. The three other ladies drew around the centre- 


ii4 


Em's Husband. 


table with their fancy work of embroidory or crochet. 
And Era. spent the very dullest evening she had ever 
passed in all her life. 

At ten o’clock precisely, Commodore Bruce rang up 
all the servants, sent for the old family Bible and con- 
ducted the evening prayers. 

Then he peremptorily sent every one off to bed. 

Em. was glad to reach her attic, which had already 
begun to seem like home in its privacy. 

It remained just as she had left it four hours before 
except that the fire was burning so low that it scarcely 
half lighted the large room with its lurid glow. 

There was a box of wood in one corner near the fire- 
place, and Em. took a few sticks and laid them on the 
smouldering togs, and soon had a cheerful blaze. 

Then she took down one of the candles from the 
mantelpiece, and was about to light it when she started 
to hear a voice behind her exclaiming : 

“ Dere now ! I jes’ dis minute got ’lieved offen duty 
to Miss Melwiny Warde, which I had to set by her and 
watch her until Miss Belindy came up to bed and let 
me go, and den I ran right up here fas' ever I could 
to fix your fire and light your candles, and you gone 
and done it all yourself ’dout de slightest ’sideration 
for my feelings.” 

“ I didn’t know that you w£re coming, Liza,” said 
Em., in a gentle tone. 

“ Now, see dere, now ! Didn’t know I was coming , 
didn’t have no conf’ence in me. Course I was coming, 
on’y I was ’tained so long dere tending to Miss Mai winy 
Warde. Takes all de house to ’tend to she ?” grumbled 
Liza, as she went about her duties, mending the fire, 
lightingthe candles on the dressing-table, turning down 
the bed, and so on. 


Surprise . 


”5 


When she had completed her work, she stopped and 
said : 

“ Now, Miss Em., ef you’s afeard to sleep by your- 
self, I’ll fetch a little mattriss from t’other room and 
sleep down here 'fore the fire to keep you company.” 

“Oh, no, thank you. You are very kind to think of 
it, Liza, but I am not at all afraid.” 

“ You know dere ain’t nobody sleeps up here in dis 
garret ’sides you.” 

“ Is there not ? But it is of no consequence.” 

“ Now, you better let me stay up here long o’ you, 
Miss Em. ’Deed you had.” 

“ Oh, thank you, but it is not necessary that you 
should. Besides, what would Mrs. Bruce say to your 
changing your sleeping place ?” 

“ Oh, she ! Lor’ bless you, Miss Em., ole Marse 
Commodo’ he's marster and mist’ess, too, in dis house, 
and he ax me to-day, he say, ‘ Lizer, where dey put dat 
young girl to sleep ?’ I say, ‘ Up in the garret.’ He 
say, ‘ I thought so. Now you sleep on a pallet in her 
room if she is afraid to stay by herself, you hear !’ I 
say, ‘Yes, marster.’ And so, Miss Em., I came up 
faithful to offer my services.” 

“ You are very kind. And so is your dear old master. 
He shows very great consideration for me. But, as I 
said before, I do not need you, Liza. By the way, 
where do you generally sleep ?” 

“Oh! out’n de house in a room ober de stables, 
which dere are six rooms dere, where de servants sleep, 
’cept de cook and de two kitchen-maids. Dey sleep in 
a room ober de kitchen.” 

“ Very well, then, Liza, perhaps as it is late you had 
better go now. Shall I come down stairs and lock the 
door after you ?” 

“ Oh, ’lor, no, Miss ! I locks de door and takes de key 


1 1 6 Em. ' s Hu sba n d. 


ebery night myself, so as to let myself in in de morning 
to wait on de ladies ! But it ain’t so awful late, after 
all, Miss Em. It ain’t no more an’ a quarter arter ten 
o’clock, so wouldn’t you like to go through de other 
rooms in this garret, and look at 'em ? \Sides which, it 
would be good to xamine, and be sure as dere ain’t no 
robbers nor nuffin hid away in dese rooms, and you up 
here by yourself,” persisted Liza. 

“ Why, what a wise little woman you are ! I’m not 
afraid of ‘ robbers nor nullin’ ’ ” said Em., smiling ; 
“ but I have ‘a cat-like love of garrets,’ and so we will 
look at these other rooms, Liza. You take one candle 
and I will take another, so we will have light enough.” 


♦ 


CHAPTER XI. 

HIDDEN LOVE. 

They seem to those who see them meet, 

The wordly friends of every day ; 

Her smile is still serene and sweet, 

His courtesy is free and gay ; 

Yet if by one the other’s name 

Should in some careless hour be heard, 

The heart we thought so calm and tame 
Would struggle like a captive bird. 

Moncton Miles. 

The colored girl did as she was directed, and led the 
way to the hall. 

“ We calls de hall Canady, ’cause it’s so big and cold,” 
said Liza, holding up her candle that Em. might view 
it. 


Hidden Love. 


ii 7 


There was nothing at all to be seen in it, except bare 
floor and bare walls, the head of the stairs, at one end, 
a large front window at the other, and two doors on 
each side leading into the four rooms. These rooms 
were not connected with each other, but opened only on 
the hall. 

“Your room is de sou’-west room, Miss Em., and 
called Cuba, ’cause it’s warm and dry. Now less us go 
in de sou’-east room, next to your’n, w T hich we call 
Louisiany, ’cause it’s warm and damp.” 

They entered that room, which had a musty and 
mouldy atmosphere of age and decay, and was furnished 
with a miscellaneous assortment of old furniture that 
seemed to have served its time out in the state cham- 
bers below, and had been retired to the rest and seclu- 
sion of the attic. 

“ I would like to look out of the window,” said Em., 
going to the front one and throwing open the shutters. 

But she only looked down on the same scene by star- 
light as she had beheld by sunset— the descent of the 
precipice, the river, and the undulating, wooded hills 
beyond. 

“Now less look in de rooms on de north side,” 
said Liza, going across the hall. “ Now this nor’-east 
room we calls Newfoun’lan’, ’cause it’s so cold and 
damp,” she added, as she led the way in. 

It was filled up, as the other two were, with furniture 
that had once been very handsome and costly, but was 
now worn out and dilapidated. 

A glance into the room sufficed. 

“ Now, Miss Em., I sorter to think as you’ll like dis 
last room better’n all de rest — dis nor’-west room which 
we do call Alasky, because it is bofe cold and dry. It’s 
de lumber-room for de whole ’stablishment, and dere’s 
ebber so many funny and cu’rus objects in it,” said the 


1 18 


Em's Husband. 


little maid, as she admitted Em. into the fourth 
room. 

“ It is ‘ a curiosity shop !’ ” exclaimed Em., looking 
around upon a heterogeneous multitude of articles that 
seemed to be the collection of a century — as most 
likely it was. 

There were costly fragments of furniture, curiously 
carved chair-backs, without seats ; elaborately embroid- 
ered cushions, without chairs ; richly gilded frames 
without pictures ; old, disfigured pictures, without 
frames ; busts without heads ; statuettes, without 
hands or feet ; vases, without pedestals ; or pedestals, 
without vases ; and an innumerable quantity of other 
things too bewildering to contemplate. 

Em. took up one object after another with curious 
interest, until at length her eyes fell upon a frame- 
less, dusty, dark-looking picture, half hidden among 
broken vases and crippled statuettes. 

It was the portrait of a youth in a midshipman’s 
uniform. 

Em. took her handkerchief and wiped the dusty face 
and looked at it. 

A bright, frank, boyish face ; a pair of merry black 
eyes ; a smiling lip, shadowed by a slight mustache ; a 
brown complexion and short, curling black hair, met 
her gaze. 

The eyes seemed to meet hers with a mischievous, 
conscious twinkle, so that she herself smiled into the 
smiling face. 

Her heart warmed and melted before it. 

“ Oh, Liza,” she said, “ is this a portrait, or is it a 
fancy sketch ? Oh, how life-like it is. And to be 
pushed away with all this rubbish ! Is it a portrait, 
Liza ?” she eagerly inquired. 

“Which, Miss Em.? That? Oh, yes ! That’s poor 


Hidden Love . 


119 


dear Marse Lonny’s pictur’,” replied the girl, approach- 
ing and holding the candle to it. 

“ Who is Marse Lonny, Liza ?” 

I “ Marse Lonny Bruce, Miss, which was ole Marse 
j Commodo’s onliest son, and was lost at sea on his fust 
v’yage, in de Benighted States man-o’-war Eagle , which 
it broke his mother’s heart to that degree as she pined 
away and died in less than a year afterwards.” 

“ I do not wonder, indeed,” said Em., gazing almost 
fondly on the bright frank face before her. 

“And dey do say de commodo* have never been de 
same man since. I don’t memorize poor Marse Lonny 
as well as I ought to, he being ole marster’s onliest son, 
and lost at sea ; but den, Miss Em., it ain’t my fault, 
’cause I wasn’t born den ; liows’ever, mammy memor- 
izes all about him, and de very day he got his middy’s 
new uniform, and de fust time he ever put it on, which 
it is de self-same his portrait is painted in.” 

“ And this is his portrait,” murmured Em., in a low 
voice, as she knelt down before the picture to get a 
nearer and a better view. 

“ Yes, Miss, de onliest portrait as he ebber had took, 
and it was took that spring, jes' ’fore he sailed on dat 
misfortnit v’yage whar he was lost.” 

“And why is it poked away in the lumber-room ? It 
seems a cruel slight.” 

“ Oh, my dear Miss Em., ’cause de ole marster he neb- 
ber could endure de sight ob it arter poor Marse Lonny 
was drowned. If ebber he come across it by accident, 
it would knock him ober for all day. His onliest son, 
you know, Miss Em. So Mrs. Bruce, which habe kept 
house for ole marse ebber since his wife died, Mrs. 
Bruce she put de picture — hung it up on de wall, you 
know, Miss, first in one room and den in t’other, but ole 
marster was sure to come upon it in his rambles about 


120 


Em's Husband. 


the house some time or other, and be upset for a whole 
day ; so den de madam put it in dis here garret lumber- 
room, whar nobody nebber comes, not eben ole 
marster.” 

“ Oh, Liza,” eagerly exclaimed Em., “ since it is 
pushed away in this rubbish room, do you think I might 
not have it in my room ? If I were to ask Mrs. Bruce 
do you think she would let me have it, while I stay 
here ?” 

“No call to bother de madam ’bout it. De madam 
gib me my orders to fix up your room comfortable and 
’tractive, and to take anything out ob de lumber-room dat 
might be useful. And did’nt I take de fender and de 
handy irons out ob de lumber-room and mightn’t I take 
de picture? Yes, Miss! I’ll take de picture and de 
’sponsibility bofe !” said Liza ; and suiting the action to 
the word, she gave Em. her candle, pulled away the 
impedimenti from before the portrait, lifted it from its 
place and carried it away to the south-west room fol- 
lowed by Em., bearing the two lights. 

Em.’s looking-glass stood upon the dressing-table. 
There was no glass on top of the old chest of drawers, 
but a good, vacant place for the portrait, and there 
they set it. 

“ Now, to-morrow, Miss Em., I’ll hunt over de lumber- 
room to try and find a frame dat will fit it. It used to 
have a frame of its own, but de old madam took it to 
put another pictur’ in. Howsever, I know I can find 
one to fit it there, ’cause you see, Miss Em., whenever I 
wants anything as I haven’t got, and can’t get any- 
where else, I takes a broom-stick and I goes up into the 
lumber-room, and I tosses up eberything till I finds 
what I want. So now, Miss Em., I bids you good-night, 
and to-morrow we’ll frame de pictur’, and hang it up 


Hidden Love. 


I 2 I 


anywhere you like,” said the kind-hearted colored girl, 
as she left the room. 

Em. went to the door and watched until she heard 
Liza go all the way down stairs and leave the house, 
locking the back-door behind her. 

Then she returned to her own room, fastened herself 
in, and fell to the contemplation of the portrait. 

The bright, frank, joyous face that seemed to smile 
in hers, fascinated her to such a degree that she could 
scarcely withdraw her gaze for a moment from it. 

“ I have read, or* heard, that every one fated to die by 
any sudden or violent catastrophe, carries the shadow 
of the coming ill on brow or cheek ; but surely no pre- 
vision of early death darkens this glad young face !” 
she murmured to herself as she gazed with infinite 
sympathy, tenderness and compassion on this counter- 
feit presentment of the unfortunate young midship- 
man. 

The sonorous hall clock began to strike eleven. Like 
hammer on anvil, its strokes rang through the house. 
Em. with a long, lingering gaze left the portrait and 
prepared for bed. 

So ended her first day at the mountain house. 

Em., wearied with the various fatigues and excite- 
ments of the time, slept soundly until morning. 

She was finally awakened by a rap at her door, and 
the voice of her little maid calling : 

“ It’s half past seven, Miss Em., and de ladies has 
breakfas’ at eight.” 

“ Quite right ! I will be ready in time,” said Em., as 
soon as she had collected her scattered senses and 
remembered where she was ; for, indeed, on being first 
aroused from her sleep, she could scarcely “ place her- 
self.” 


122 


Em.'s Husband. 


“ Please to open de door, and let me in to make your 
fire, Miss Em.,” said Liza. 

Em. jumped out of the bed and complied with the 
request. 

Then her eyes fell upon the pictured face of Lonny 
Bruce — brighter, gladder, more joyous looking by the 
morning light than it had seemed the evening before. 

Em. greeted it with such a smile as she would have 
given to a living and beloved face, and then while her 
little maid kindled her fire, she made her simple morn- 
ing toilet. 

She made such good haste that when she reached the 
breakfast-room she found none of the family except 
Ronald Bruce. 

“ Good-morning, Em. I was in hopes you would be 
down first, so I came here on purpose to wait for you 
Em. I want you to promise to marry me. 1 ’ 

“ Oh, Ronald, you know I cannot do that, without the 
knowledge and consent of all your family and all mine,” 
replied Em. 

“ Well, but with their knowledge and consent,” urged 
the young man. 

“ They will never, never give it, Ronald ! Your fam- 
ily are too proud to consent to receive the daughter of a 
poor overseer as a relative. And my family are much 
too proud to permit their daughter to enter any house- 
hold where she would not be most welcome.” 

“ But, Em., what in the Blue Dees do you mean ? Is 
the wicked, diabolical pride of your old folks and 
mine to interfere with our lives, so as to make us both 
miserable all our days ?” 

“ I don’t know, Ronald ; but we must do what is 
right.” 

Ronald’s impatient reply was checked by the entrance 
of Commodore Bruce, who greeted his nephew and the 


Hidden Love . 


123 


young girl kindly, and then growled as usual at the 
punctual unpunctuality of the ladies of his household. 

“You can never rely on them but for one thing and 
that is for always being behind time. Ah ! here they 
are at last !” 

The ladies entered, interchanged the morning salu- 
tations, and then they all went to breakfast. 

It was not until they were all seated at the table that 
Commodore Bruce missed . Mrs. Warde, and said : 

“Well, how is Malvina? Is she not sufficiently 
recovered from her hysterics yet to come down ?” 

“Mamma does not feel strong enough to rise this 
morning, but she will try to join us at dinner in the 
evening,” Belinda explained. 

The breakfast was then discussed, and when, it was 
over, and the family party arose from the table, Em. was 
about to leave the room, when again the old commodore 
stopped her, saying : 

“ My dear, don’t run away ! I want you to finish 
reading the papers for me, and I will promise not to go 
to sleep. I never go to sleep in the forenoon, however.” 

Em. looked at Mrs. Bruce for directions. 

“ Go with the commodore, child,” said that lady, con- 
descendingly. 

Em. followed the old man to the library, where he 
seated himself in his easy-chair, lay back at rest, and 
pointed to another chair, telling Em. to draw it up, seat 
herself and commence reading. 

Em. obeyed him, and spent the whole forenoon in 
perusing the papers. 

It was nearly two o’clock when she got through. 

“ Well, now, my dear, you have given me a great 
deal of pleasure, and I thank you ; but I will not 
trouble you again until Friday. The mails come in but 
twice a week to Grey rock — on Tuesdays and Fridays. 


124 


Em's Husband \ 


Then I get my papers, and you shall read them to me. 
Go now and take a run in the fresh air until luncheon. 
Young blood requires a great deal of oxygen. Go.” 

Em. wished to say something, but could not think 
what. She turned to go ; then looked over her shoul- 
der, and seeing the pale, gray, feeble old man, with his 
chin bowed upon his breast, in an attitude of depression, 
weakness and sorrow, her heart was filled with com- 
passionate tenderness for him, and she lingered, looking 
lovingly on him. 

One thin, white, withered hand hung down by his 
side. With a sudden impulse of strange affection, she 
stepped forward, raised the hand to her lips, dropped 
it, and would have hurried away ; but the hand she had 
kissed was laid in benediction on her bright young 
head as the old man murmured : 

“ God bless you, my child ! How kindly that was 
meant. Go now and take your walk.” 

Em. left the room, ran up to her • attic chamber 
for hat and shawl, and then ran downstairs out of the 
house to the stony front-yard overlooking the descent 
of the precipice. 

Here she was quickly joined by Ronald Bruce, who 
had seen her from the front drawing-room windows, 
and ran out into the place. 

“ Em.,” he whispered, as he joined her, “ you have not 
answered my question yet. Are we both to be made 
miserable all our lives by the sinful pride of our 
relatives ?” 

“ Yes, I did answer you, Ronald ; but I will answer 
you again. We cannot tell how this will end ; but 
whatever other people do, we must do what is right. 
And, Ronald, if you do care for me, as I believe, please 
do not follow me about, or try to meet me anywhere. 
It is not discreet. Now do but look ! There is Miss 


Hidden Love . 


1 2 5 


Belinda Warde watching ns from the front parlor 
windows !” 

Ronald turned to catch a glimpse of the lady’s face, 
which was withdrawn the instant it was detected. 

“ I am going in,” said Em. 

“ So am I,” said Ronald. “ I only came out here 
to speak to you, and I don’t care if all the fine ladies in 
Christendom watch me. I will let them see that I love 
you, Em. ; for I do love you, and I will marry you 
in spite of them all.” 

They returned to the house, and Em. ran up stairs to 
get ready for lunch. 

Ronald went into the drawing-room, sulkily threw 
himself into a chair, took up a book and pretended to be 
absorbed in reading, in order to escape any interchange 
of words with Miss Warde. 

But still he did not feel any more at ease when 
Belinda, with an offended air, arose and left the room. 

The family met at luncheon. 

Commodore Bruce treated Em. with more than 
previous kindness ; but the sensitive girl perceived a 
shadow of coldness in the manner of the ladies towards 
her, and she wondered whether Miss Warde had not 
been making. mischief, by certain misrepresentations. 

After luncheon, just as the ladies were about to leave 
the room, Mrs. Bruce called to Em.: 

“ Miss Palmer, I wish to speak with you alone. Fol- 
low me to my room.” 

“ I was going there, madam, to resume my needle- 
work,” replied Em., as she obeyed the directions of the 
lady. 

When they had reached Mrs. Bruce’s chamber, the 
latter inquired : 

“ When is your father coming for you, Miss Palmer ?” 

“ On Saturday evening, madam, when he will take 


126 


Em.'s Husband. 


me home, to stay over Sunday, if you please,” modestly 
and respectfully replied the girl. 

“ Very well. It pleases me quite well. And you 
need not take the trouble to return on Monday., I shall 
have no further occasion for your services after this 
week,” said the lady, with cold hauteur. 

Em. turned deadly sick at heart and ghastly pale with 
mortification and disappointment. 

But before her faltering lips could form a reply^ 
another voice came from the open door, saying defiantly: 

“ I am very glad to hear that, madam ; for after this 
week I shall require all the young lady’s society all to 
myself ! Yes, and with her consent, I mean to retain it 
just so long as we both shall live.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

LOVE IN THE TOILS. 

You may as well go stand upon the beach 
And bid the main flood bate his usual height ; 

You may as well use question with the wolf 
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb ; 

You may as well go bid the mountain pines 
Still their high tops and make no further noise, 

When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven ; 

You may as well do anything most hard, 

As seek to alter that (than which, what’s firmer ?)^ 
His stubborn heart. 

Shakespeare. 

The speaker was Commodore Bruce, who stood in the 
doorway, with one hand leaning on his ivory-headed 
cane, and the other against the frame of the door. 


Love in the Toils. 


127 


“ Oh, it is you, uncle ! You quite startled me. Please 
come in,” said Mrs. Bruce, recovering from her mo- 
mentary panic. , 

“ Thank you. I intended to,” said the old man, 
advancing, and sinking into the great, cushioned arm- 
chair which Em., rallying from her shock, had wheeled 
for his accommodation. 

“ Sit down, child ; it is not good for young spines to 
stand up too much,” he added, as he settled himself 
comfortably. 

Em. took a chair at a little distance, and picked up 
the needle-work on which she had been engaged the 
day before. 

“ You say you will not require the services of this 
young lady after next Saturday ?” inquired the com- 
modore. 

“ Yes, I have told her so ; the work we have on hand 
will be finished by that time, and I shall have no more 
for her,” answered Mrs. Bruce, considerably modifying 
the tones of haughtiness and contempt with which she 
had spoken to the poor girl. 

“ I am very glad to hear you say so, for I would like 
to have her services all to myself, to read or write for 
me.” 

“ But, my dear uncle, Ronald would be most happy 
to do all this for you.” 

“ Yes, and look confoundedly bored all the time. No ; 
I want this girl.” 

“ If you must have a young girl, I am sure our niece, 
Hermia, would be delighted to — ” 

“Well, I shouldn’t then ; there !” 

“ Or, I myself, if you would accept my services, 
would be — ” 

“ Thanks, very much, my dear, I will not trouble 
you.” 


128 


Em's Husband. 


“ Well, then, there is Mrs. Warde, who really is a 
very fine elocutionist — ” 

“ But I don’t want to be elocutionized ; particularly 
by Mrs. Warde. Malvina is a fine woman, for her age, 
but she has a voice between a trumpet and a hand-saw. 
I want Miss Palmer and no one else,” persisted the 
veteran. 

“ One would really think the poor fool was in love 
with the girl and meant to marry her ! But, still, that 
is not very likely,” said Mrs. Bruce to herself, with a 
shrug of her handsome shoulders. 

She did not, however, proffer the services of the only 
remaining lady of the household — Miss Belinda Warde ; 
for she could not tell what other matrimonial whim 
might enter into the old man’s mind or be put into it 
by the constant presence of the handsome brunette. 

“ I am sure, uncle, if you would permit me, I could 
find a much more suitable companion than this young 
girl,” rather sulkily persisted Mrs. Bruce. 

“ Thanks, very much, my dear ; but 1 think the com- 
panion that suits me best, is the most suitable. I say I 
will have Miss Palmer. Let the question rest. Come 
here, my child.” (This was to Em.) 

The young girl laid down her work and came to the 
side of the old man, who took her hand and looked 
benignly in her face. 

Em. smiled, though her tears were ready to start. 

“ Where did you get my Lonny’s smiling eyes, my 
dear ? You are like a boy I lost long years ago, Miss 
Palmer — a brave boy, and a handsome one, or you 
could not be like him. You are very like him, my dear 
— with one of those accidental likenesses that are some- 
times found to exist between those of no kin. It is not 
in your complexion or features, for you are fair and 
fragile, while my poor, lost Lonny was dark and strong 


Love in the Toils. 


129 


— but it is so in your smile — so in your whole expres- 
sion of countenance, that I could almost fancy my 
Lonny’s purified soul looked from out of your blue 
eyes. It is very strange ; but I cannot endure the 
sight of his portrait, though I love to see his likeness 
in you. I think I partly understand the reason, how- 
ever, continued the veteran, dropping his head in med- 
itation, while his white beard flowed to his waist. 
“ Yes, I think I see it, ‘as in a glass, darkly ’ — that 
portrait was the perfect image of his material body, as 
I used to see it — the material body which has perished ; 
and which, because it has perished, I cannot bear to 
see in its ‘ counterfeit.’ But that which looks at me 
from your fair face is the likeness of my son’s living 
soul ; therefore I love to contemplate it.” 

“ How the old dotard drivels !” thought Mrs. Bruce. 
“ He’ll soon be a subject for the lunatic asylum.” 

“ But that is not the point now, my dear,” continued 
the old man, still holding the hand of Em. “ The ques- 
tion at issue is, whether when you have completed your 
term of service with my sister-in-law, you will enter 
mine, as my reader and writer ?” 

Em. paused for a moment and then raising her blue 
eyes, full of the reverential, filial tenderness she felt for 
the childless old man, answered earnestly : 

“ Indeed, I should be so very happy to do so, if only 
Mrs. Bruce and my mother will consent.’ 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! Mrs. Bruce will consent ! I’ll swear 
to that ! And if you have half the influence with your 
mother that I have with Mrs. Bruce, she'll consent. If 
she does not, I’ll try my 4 ’prentice hand s at persuasion, 
and it will go hard but she shall give you up to me,” 
chuckled the old man. 

“ As for myself , uncle, you know that your will has 
always been my law,” said the lady. 


130 


Em's Husband. 


“ Oh, I know it ; I know it, my dear,” said the com- 
modore. “ And now, little one,” he continued, turning 
to Em., “go and take a run in the grounds. Too, much 
house is not good for little girls. I want to talk with 
my sister-in-law.” 

Em turned to her employer for direction. 

“ Come ! Run away ! run away !” exclaimed the 
veteran. 

“ Do as you are bidden,” loftily commanded Mrs. 
Bruce. 

“ SCAT !” stamped the commodore. 

Em. laughed and ran out. 

“ Now then, madam, what the demon does all this 
mean ?” demanded the commodore. 

“ All what mean ? I don’t understand,” replied Mrs. 
Bruce. 

“Oh, yes you do. Yesterday you could not, any of 
you, be too kind to that poor girl. To-day you all of 
you so overwhelmed the child with your studied cold- 
ness and contempt that she looked as if she were going 
to expire at the lunch-table. I could scarcely stand it 
myself, and so, to counteract the effect of your com- 
bined rudeness, I was obliged to be obtrusively atten- 
tive to Miss Palmer. I knew perfectly well when I saw 
you leave the lunch-table and order that girl to follow 
you to your room, you were sharpening your claws, and 
whetting your teeth, and licking your chops in antici-* 
pation of a meal off her ?” 

“ Commodore Bruce ! What monstrous ideas you 
have!” exclaimed the horrified lady. “Am I a vam- 
pire, or a cannibal ?” 

“ Well, yes ; in some sense you are. I do not mean 
to say that having lunched on chicken-pie, cold ham 
and custard, you are going to dine on Em. immediately. 
No, but you were going to glut your pride, and surfeit 


Love in the Toils. 


131 


your anger, and satisfy your selfishness on her, all the 
same, which is a wickeder sort of cannibalism than the 
other, since it devours the spirit. That child has most 
innocently offended you all. Now 1 want to know in 
what manner ? And I will know ; for while I am cap- 
tain of this ship — master of this house, I mean — no 
woman shall be treated with coldness and cruelty while 
under my roof, and especially when at my table. 
Come.” 

“ Well, uncle, since you will have it, I acknowledge 
that Miss Palmer has offended me — has offended us all ; 
therefore I really do not think that you should keep her 
here as you propose to do, or that you will keep her, 
when you have heard all about her.” 

“ I’ll be shot to death if I don’t,” said the commodore. 
“ But how has that harmless girl offended you ? By her 
beauty, grace and sweetness ? I know of no other cause. 
I11 what way has she offended you, I ask ?” 

“ In a way that would have offended any woman with 
a proper sense of modesty and decorum.” 

“ But by what means ? By what means V impatiently 
demanded the veteran. 

“ By the general indiscretion of her conduct,” coldly 
replied the lady. 

“ By Jove ! I will not take such an answer !” 
roared the old commodore, bringing his fist down upon 
the table like a hammer upon an anvil, and making 
every article on it dance. “ You would ruin an inno- 
cent girl’s reputation with a few generalities like that ! 
I — will — know,” he continued, slowly and emphatically, 
telling off every word with a thump of his stick. “ I — 
will — know — every detail of — time, place, and company 
— word, act, and look of the indiscretion with which you 
charge this child ! Yes, and I will have them estab- 
lished by more than one competent witness ! None of 


i3 2 


Em's Husband. 


your unsupported generalities for me ! I have made 
myself the advocate of this innocent girl, and will see 
that she suffers no wrong. No, by Jove ! While I'm 
commander of this ship — captain of this house, 1 mean 
—no woman in it shall suffer injury unavenged ! No, 
in a few words tell me distinctly what the girl has said 
or done !” 

“ Well, I do not think that you will be any better sat- 
isfied when you have heard,” said Mrs. Bruce, mali- 
ciously. “ This is her offence, then : She has been here 
but two days, and has been detected several times in 
private conversation with my son, your nephew, Ronald 
Bruce, who follows her about wherever she goes ! 
There ! now you have it !” 

“He — he — he! Ha — ha — ha! Ho — ho — ho!” 
laughed the commodore. “ That’s a great offence, 
now, isn’t it ? As if it wasn’t perfectly natural and 
right for a young man to follow a young girl around, 
when they are both shut up in a lonely country house, 
with a lot of old ladies !” 

“ Hermia Templeton is not old at least, and I think 
she is more interested in this matter than any one else,” 
gravely replied Mrs. Bruce. 

“ That is true,” mused the commodore — “ I beg Her- 
mia’s pardon. She is not old. She is young and pretty 
and attractive enough for any man, and a great deal too 
good for my young rascal of a nephew : but as she is to 
marry him, whether or no, of course she has more a 
stake in this running around than any one else ! But 
now tell me the particulars — the particulars ! Time, 
place, and circumstance ! You know I told you that I 
would have the details and have them proved !” 

Mrs. Bruce told the whole story of Ronald’s and 
Em.’s meetings and talks, in the drawing-room, in the 
dining-room, in the library,. and in the grounds. She 


Love in the Toils . 


133 


told it, not as it is known to you and me, reader, but 
with many an exaggeration and much false coloring, as 
she had heard it from Mrs. Warde and Miss Belinda — 
for, ill as Malvina was, or affected to be, she was not too 
ill to play the part of an eavesdropper and a detractor. 
And since Em. had been in the house there was no 
harmless interview she had had with her honest suitor 
to which either the designing mother or daughter had 
not been an unseen listener. 

“ This must be looked into,” said Commodore Bruce, 
very much more gravely then he had yet spoken. “ Yes, 
this must be seen to. I must give that young scamp a 
sound lecture ! for, mind you, it is he who is in fault, 
though woman-like, you put the whole blame upon 
her ! It is he who is to blame, and very much to 
blame, for he is pursuing her and trifling with 
her, when he knows very well, the rascal ! that he 
must marry my niece, Hermia Templeton, or go to the 
deuce ! While I am commander of this ship — I mean 
master of this house — I won’t have it ! Still, let 
me tell you, madam, that I despise the means by which 
these women have detected these interviews. They 
could have done so only by eavesdropping ! And, oh, 
lord ! how I do loathe and detest eavesdroppers !” ex- 
claimed the veteran, with every expression of disgust 
and abhorrence disfiguring his fine old face, as he arose 
from his seat and, leaning on his stick, turned to 
depart. 

Before leaving the room, he paused and said : 

“ I shall say nothing to Ronald to-day. I have had 
quite enough of excitement for one day — more of it 
would spoil my dinner and my night’s rest — perhaps 
ruin my digestion and my nervous system ! So no more 
of this subject for the present. I want to relish my 
turkey and enjoy a good night’s sleep. To-morrow 


i34 


Em's Husband. 


morning after breakfast I will take my young gentle- 
man in hand, and we will go over the chart of his life 
voyage together, and I will show him his course. 
To make things surer, I will also speak to my young 
lady. But, in the meantime, I desire you and your 
friends in the house to treat this young girl with con- 
sideration and kindness. Let them know, if you please, 
that such is my will. I shall see in a moment, by the 
look of that child’s face, whether she has been treated 
with contempt while out of my sight/' 

With these words the veteran left the room. 

Mrs. Bruce cared very little for the brusquerie of the 
old sailor, so that he had given his promise to break up 
the intimacy between her son and her seamstress . 

Indeed, her reason for the severe course she took 
towards Em. was rather the desire to put a prompt and 
final stop to the acquaintance between the young people 
than any dislike to the girl herself. 

Meantime Em. had gone out to the grounds for a 
walk, but seeing Ronald Bruce approaching from the 
house, she quickly passed around to a side door, entered 
it, and ran up to her room, where she arranged her 
simple toilet for dinner. 

Em. dreaded meeting the family again at the table ; 
but when the bell rang and she went down and found 
them all assembled in the dining-room, and Commodore 
Bruce advanced, took her hand and led her to her seat, 
and all looked kindly or with perfect indifference on 
her, she felt more at her ease. 

“ Mrs. Warde, permit me to name to you my young 
friend, Miss Palmer, here, who has not had the privi- 
lege of being presented to you before,” said the com- 
modore, with somewhat stilted politeness, to a tall, 
dark, haggard-looking woman, with great black 
eyes, who sat opposite to Em., and who was richly 


1 35 


Love in the Toils. 


dressed in black velvet, lace and bugles, and whom Em. 
immediately recognized as the lady who had fainted at 
the sight of herself in the upper hall. 

Em. arose from her chair and bent her head. 

Mrs. Warde stared and returned the salutation with a 
slight and haughty nod. 

That was all. They were as much strangers as 
before the introduction. The dinner went on ; other 
people spoke to Em. from time to time, but Mrs. Warde 
scarcely noticed her at all, or only by a furtive, nervous 
glance. 

As soon as the dinner was over the family party ad- 
journed to the drawing-room — with one exception, that 
of Ronald Bruce — who sulkily absented himself from 
the domestic circle that night. 

The old commodore, seated in his soft-cushioned, big 
arm-chair, made a point of talking to Em. until he fell 
fast asleep. 

The ladies of the house gathered around a large cen- 
tre-table that stood under a lighted chandelier, and 
before the ruddy, open fire of hickory logs, where, hav- 
ing few intellectual resources, they busied themselves 
with crochet and gossip. 

Em., having no taste for either of these pursuits, sat 
apart, near the sleeping old man, and wondered what 
they were all doing at home, and whether Ronald Bruce 
would make his appearance at all in the drawing-room 
that evening. 

He did not ; and, therefore, upon the whole, Em. 
spent another one of the dullest evenings she had ever 
passed in her life. 

When the hour of ten, their sober bedtime, struck, 
and the circle broke, Em. was glad. 

But, as she was about to leave the room, the old com- 
modore, awakened by the general movement, aroused 


Em.’s Husband. 


136 


himself, got up from his chair, and took her hand, say- 
ing kindly : 

“ Good-night, and may the Lord bless you, my dear 
child !” 

“ And you, too, sir,” replied Em., in a low, timid, but 
earnest tone, as she bowed over his wrinkled hand, and 
then left the room. 

She glanced up and down the hall, in the hope of 
seeing Ronald Bruce, to give him good-night. She 
could scarcely help doing this ; indeed, she was scarcely 
conscious of doing it; for if she had met him, waylay- 
ing her, to speak a word, she would certainly and very 
properly have rebuked him for doing so. 

Yet she heaved a deep sigh of disappointment when 
she had passed all the way up stairs without seeing 
him. 

When Em. entered her cheerful room in the attic, she 
found the candles on the dressing-table lighted, the fire 
burning brightly, and the little maid, Liza, waiting. 

“ Cold night, Miss Em., ain’t it ? Spect dere’ll be a 
mighty heavy frost, if not snow, ’fore mornin. We had 
snow airlier’n dis last year,” said Liza, as she pushed 
up a chair nearer the fire. 

“ Then I suppose you must have winter much earlier 
on these mountains than we ever have on the plains 
where I was brought up,” answered Em. 

“ Well, you see, Miss, I dunno nuffin ’tall ’bout de 
wedder way down dere. I nebber libbed on de plains, 
wyse’f. Dunno how anybody can lib so far, far down 
below de sky ! You was right to come up here, Miss 
Em. Well, I only just waited here till you come, Miss 
Em., to see if you has everything you ’quire. Has you ?” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed, Liza ; thank you.” 

*• Well, den, I must go. I got to go to Miss Melwiny 
Warde’s room and rub her feet till she goes to sleep, 


Love in the Toils. 


137 


the Lord help her ! She’s an awful bad sleeper, she is, 
and sometimes I has to set at de foot of her bed and rub 
her feet half de night ’fore she gets quiet. Wonder to 
me is how she can’t read her chapter in de Bible, and 
say her prayers, and go to sleep like a Christian. Well, 
goodnight, Miss Em., I reckon you can go to sleep, ’dout 
having of your feet rubbed, can’t you ?” 

“ Oh, yes,” smiled Em. as the girl left the room. 

The bright fire shone on the portrait of Lonny Bruce, 
so that the merry, mischievous young face beamed out 
in full light. 

“ Ah, you beautiful and happy boy, what a dreadful 
fate was yours !” murmured Em., standing before the 
picture. “ And your poor, bereaved old father fancies 
that I look like you ; and so he loves me for your sake ! 
I wonder if I do look like you — I, who am so fair, while 
you are so dark — I, who am so steady, while you look 
so wild ! But, perhaps, you had your grave seasons as 
I sometimes have my gay spells ! Oh, dear me, I wonder 
why Ronald Bruce did not come in the drawing-room 
all the evening ! And did not even try to bid me good- 
night ! I know it is on his account that Mrs. Bruce gave 
me warning to leave her service so suddenly. But the 
dear old commodore, whom I love so much, likes me, 
and is kind to me. I wonder, oh s I wonder, if he will 
ever consent that his nephew may marry me ! What 
is the use of thinking about that ? I will say my prayers 
and go to sleep.” 

And so she did. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

“old heads and young hearts.” 

I must be cruel only to be kind. 

Shakespeare. 

The next morning Em. awoke to the memory of the 
preceding day’s events — her unkind dismissal by Mrs. 
Bruce ; her immediate engagement by Commodore 
Bruce ; Ronald’s unaccountable absence from his 
mother’s drawing-room circle, and his strange omission 
to appear somewhere about the halls of the staircases to 
bid Em. good night on her way to her room. 

She felt a strong impulse to arise and dress quickly 
and hurry down to the breakfast-room, in the probabil- 
ity of seeing Ronald before any one else should be 
there. 

She acted on this impulse ; but by the time she had 
finished her simple toilet reason had come to check 
impulse, and prudence to warn her that she must not 
seek an interview with her lover, and, furthermore, 
that she must not even risk an accidental meeting 
with Ronald Bruce, if she would avoid giving new 
cause of offence. 

vSo instead of hastening down to the breakfast-room, 
Em seated herself at her chamber window with a piece 
of needle-work in her hand, and sewed until the break - 
[138] 




“ Old Heads and Young Hearts !' 

o 


139 


fast bell rang, and then, to make sure of not meeting 
Ronald alone, she waited five minutes after the bell 
had stopped ringing, for she concluded that it would be 
better that she should be a little late at the table than 
that she should give umbrage by a tete-a-tHe with 
Ronald. 

She went leisurely down stairs, and entered the 
breakfast-room, expecting to find all the family at the 
table. 

She found no one present except Ronald Bruce, who 
stood on the rug with his back to the fire, impa- 
tiently waiting for her. 

“ Em. !” he exclaimed, stepping forward and taking 
her hand, “ I have been here half an hour, hoping you 
would be down early, perhaps earlier than usual, 
because we could not see each other last night. Why 
are you so late ?” he inquired, reproachfully. 

“ I am not late, Ronald. None of the family except 
yourself have yet come down. But, oh, Ronald ! 
please do not plan to see me alone. Your having done 
so has already caused trouble. That was the reason 
why at lunch yesterday the ladies treated tne so 
coldly — ” 

“ Impertinently, insolently, I call it ! I saw it all, 
Em., and my blood boiled ! But what can a man do 
with such women, except to avoid them ?” 

“ But they were kinder to me at dinner,” said Em., 
apologetically. 

“ ‘ Kinder !’ They behaved towards you with proper 
politeness, that was all, and I know to whose power 
that must be attributed ! The old commodore had 
‘ put his foot down ’ to that effect, I feel sure. But, 
Em., I could not join those women in the drawing-room 
last night, when I felt that I should not be able to play 
the hypocrite, and treat Miss Warde or her mother with 


140 


E m. 's Husba ud. 


the respect I could not feel for them, with the respect 
a man should always, and under all circumstances, 
show women. So to avoid them I absented myself 
from the drawing-room. I went up to my chamber, 
locked myself in, hated all my fellow-creatures except 
you, Em., and read satires in the original Greek all the 
evening.” 

“ And so that was the reason why you did not come 
to bid — any of us — good-night,” said Em. 

“ That, yes, that was one reason why I did not come 
to bid — any of you — good-night. But that was not the 
only reason. I was making up my mind, and coming to 
a conclusion that I shall act upon to-day.” 

“ Oh, Ronald !” exclaimed Em., startled by his expres- 
sion, “ I hope you will never do or say anything to dis- 
tress your good old uncle ! His past life has been so 
full of trouble. His remaining days are few. Let 
them at least be filled with peace.” 

“ I must speak to him to-day, however, for your sake, 
Em.” 

“ Oh, no, no, no ! It were much better that you 
should give me up altogether than bring discord to the 
last days of one to whom you owe so much !” exclaimed 
Em. 

“ To give you up, Em., would be to give up my free- 
dom of choice in a matter where the whole happiness 
of my life and that of my chosen one is concerned ! 
That would be too heavy a price to pay, even for the 
great benefits I have received at my uncle’s hands. 
No, Em., I will never, never give you up !” said the 
young man, earnestly. 

“ What !” exclaimed the voice of the commodore. 

Both the young people started as at a thunder-clap 
and looked around to see the old man, leaning on his 
stick, as he advanced slowly into the room. 


“ Old Heads and Young Hear Is 0 1 4 1 


“ No one down but two ? But, then, you are always 
down first, and ought to have a medal for punctuality !” 
he continued, as he paused and leaned more heavily 
upon his stick. 

Ronald stepped quickly to his side and gave him the 
support of an arm, while Em. wheeled the big arm- 
chair to the fire. 

Both the young people were filled with painful 
doubts as to whether or not the old commodore had 
heard the concluding words of Ronald’s impetuous 
speech. Their countenances were full of confusion, 
nor were their minds set at rest by the next words of 
the old man, who as soon as he had sunk into his seat, 
turned a rather severe eye upon his nephew, and said : 

“ ‘ My handsome young man,’ I have something very 
serious to say to you. Come to my room immediately 
after breakfast ; I will meet you there.” 

“ Very well, sir. I will be punctual, the more so be- 
cause I nave an important communication to make to 
you,” replied Ronald. 

“ Oh, indeed f” exclaimed the old commodore. 

The entrance of the ladies here put an end to the 
topic. 

They greeted the party in the breakfast-room, re- 
ceived the commodore’s rebukes for their tardiness very 
good*humoredly, and gathered around the table. 

As the meal progressed, Ronald was taken to task 
for his desertion of the preceding evening 

He coldly excused himself by saying that he had been 
engaged in reading Greek, and trying to solve a prob- 
lem. 

Miss Belinda hoped that he had succeeded in doing so. 

Ronald said dryly that he hoped he had. 

When breakfast was over, Em. followed Mrs. Bruce 
to her sitting-room, where that lady filled her hands 


1 42 


Em's Husband. 


with needle-work enough to last her all day long, and 
left her alone. 

Meanwhile Ronald Bruce repaired to his uncle’s 
study, fully resolved to avow his love for Em. and ask 
his uncle’s consent to marry her ; but he thought that, 
as in duty bound, he would defer his communication 
until he should have heard what his uncle had to say to 
him. 

When he entered the study he found the old man 
seated in his big leathern chair by the long study table. 

There was an empty chair placed exactly opposite to 
him. 

“ Take this seat before me, that we may look each 
other in the face as we speak,” said the commodore, 
with an emphatic rap upon the one indicated. 

Ronald sat down, folded his hands before him, and 
waited with the air of a rebellious child about to 
be catechized or reprimanded. 

The old commodore, on his part, dropped his head on 
his chest, and reflected for a few moments before open- 
ing the discussion. 

At length, however, he looked up, drew a long breath, 
and began : 

“ Ronald, I asked you to come here that I might talk 
to you on a very painful and very delicate subject, and 
I scarcely know how to open it.” 

He paused and looked at his nephew ; but that young 
gentleman said nothing to help him out. 

“ Perhaps you yourself may have some suspicion of the 
subject ?” suggested the commodore. 

“ Is it Miss Palmer ?” sulkily inquired the young man. 

“ Yes, it is Em. Palmer. Ronald, I do not wish to be 
hard on yon, You are but a young man, shut up in a 
very dull country house, with a very beautiful and at- 
tractive young girl. You could scarcely help falling a 


“ Old Heads and Young Hearts. 


143 


little in love with her, so I cannot blame you for that ; 
but, Ronald, if you have let her perceive your love, you 
have done wrong ; and if you have won her love in re- 
turn, you have done very wrong.” 

Ronald started, flushed, and was about to speak, when 
his uncle raised his hand and said : 

“ Hear me out, your turn will come presently.” 

“ But I must speak now. I never intended any wrong 
to Em. — never, so help me Heaven !” burst forth 
Ronald. 

“ I quite believe it,” the commodore promptly ad- 
mitted. “ Yet you have already wronged her more 
than you know.” 

“ How ? how ?” impetuously demanded the young 
man. 

“ By your thoughtless pursuit of her since she has 
been in this house. By following her, lying in wait for 
her, meeting her in the breakfast-room, in the study, in 
the grounds, anywhere, in short, where you could find 
her alone. And this you have done without her con- 
nivance, I firmly believe !” 

“ Heaven knows that is true ! Em. herself has re- 
buked me for pursuing her ; and yet I meant her no 
wrong, as I soon hope to prove to you.” 

“ I need no proof. I know you, Ronald, and, there- 
fore, I am sure you meant no harm ; and yet, as I said 
before, you have by this conduct done her grievous 
wrong. You have drawn upon her the invidious notice 
of evil-thinking women. Do you know what happened 
yesterday ?” suddenly inquired the commodore, breaking 
off in his discourse. 

“ I know that our lady guests presumed to treat Miss 
Palmer with insolence ! But they will find — ” 

“ Never mind what they will find. There was some- 
thing worse than that happened ! these women’s 


1 44 


Em.'s Husband. 


tongues obliged my sister-in-law to dismiss the girl from 
her service." 

Ronald sprang to his feet. 

“ Did my mother have the cruelty to do that ?” he 
exclaimed. 

“ She could not help herself, with those two women 
nagging her on! But I was determined the child 
should not be sent back to her mother in that discredit- 
able manner, and so I immediately engaged her as my 
reader and writer, and conveyed a hint to those ladies 
that they would oblige me by treating her with proper 
consideration. Since that, I must say, they have be- 
haved better.” 

“ I thought the improvement in their manner to Miss 
Palmer was brought about through your interference ; 
but I had no idea that she had passed from my moth- 
er’s service into yours,” said Ronald. 

“ She has not yet done so. She was warned to leave 
Mrs. Bruce’s employment on next Saturday, when her 
father will come for her.. She is to come back and 
enter mine on Monday — unless her parents should raise 
some objection, which I do not think likely — or , unless 
you should persist in your dangerous pursuit of her.” 

“ ‘ Dangerous !’ sir ?” echoed the young man. 

“ Yes, dangerous ! Dangerous to her peace, honor 
and reputation !” 

“ But, sir, you misunderstand me, quite. I love Em. !” 

“ Then you are very foolish.” 

“ I have told her that I love her !” 

“ You were very rash to do so.” 

“And, moreover, I know that I have won her love !” 

“ Then, Ronald Bruce, you have been very much to 
blame. How will you ever answer to her, or to your 
own conscience, for that child’s disappointed heart and 


H5 


“ Old Heads and Young Hearts.” 


I6st happiness?" sternly demanded the old commo- 
dore. 

“ My good uncle, I told you that you totally misap- 
prehended me, and I repeat it. I do not intend to dis- 
appoint Em. Her happiness shall be the first object 
and fondest care of my life,” earnestly exclaimed 
Ronald. 

“ What — in the deuce — do you mean ?” slowly de- 
manded Commodore Bruce, staring at* his nephew with 
distended eyes. 

“ What do I mean, do you ask, sir ? What does any 
honorable man mean, when he says that he loves a 
good young girl, that he has told her so, and that he 
intends to marry her ?” exclaimed Ronald Bruce, some- 
. what impatiently, as at his hearer’s want of comprehen- 
sion. 

“ Eh ? What ? What the foul fiend are you saying 
to me, Ronald ?” demanded the provoked and puzzled 
old man. 

“ I say that with your consent, sir, I will marry Em. 
Palmer,” firmly replied the young man. 

“ Marry — Em. — Palmer ?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ You are raving mad ! You are fit for nothing but a 
j strait-jacket and a lunatic asylum ! Marry Em. Palmer ! 

; Why, even if she were your equal in birth, posi- 
| tion, and education, you could not do so ; for you are to 
i marry Hermia Templeton, you know.” 

“ Indeed, I did not know it ! No word or look of 
love has ever passed between me and Hermia. We 
like each other well enough as cousins, but not enough 
j to marry — especially as she loves another man, and I 
i another woman !” recklessly replied Ronald. 

“ Then you are a very disobedient, rebellious, and 
unmanageable young couple ! That is all I have to say. 


146 


Em's Husband. 


But I shall talk to Hermia, and bring her to reason. 
And as for you, Ronald, I shall expect you to give up 
this insane whim and make up your mind to marry 
Hermia Templeton. You two are my heirs, and you 
should marry and keep the property together.” 

“ I should be very sorry to disappoint you, uncle ; 
but honor as well as love is engaged in this, and I can- 
not and will not give up the girl I love. I must and 
will marry Emolyn Palmer,” firmly responded Ronald 
Bruce. 

“ Come, come, now, nephew !” said the old man, as 
soothingly as he would have talked to a sick and delir- 
ious patient. “ Come, come, listen to reason ! I can 
understand and appreciate your feelings ! yes, better 
than you can yourself. This love of yours is a delusion 
of the senses, a mere hallucination that is sure to pass 
away, whether you marry the object of it or not ! If 
you were to marry that young girl under your present 
illusions, they would pass away in a few months. You 
would cease to love her ; but you would never cease to 
I regret that you had so hastily married her. Unfitted 
for each other in birth, culture, position, and everything, 
your wedded life would be a life of misery to both ! 
Think of this while there is yet time, and withdraw from 
this contemplated and most insane idea of marriage ! I 
will say no more to you at present. Go and think of 
what I have said to you, and said with the most unselfish 
desire to promote your happiness,” said Commodore 
Bruce, rising as a signal that the interview was ended. 

“ I thank you, sir, for your great kindness to me in this 
as in all other matters. But I must not leave you under 
any false impressions. I love Em., and have won her 
love. I am of age and can do as I please. My pay as 
a lieutenant in the navy will support my wife in moder- 
ate comfort. Therefore, I shall certainly marry Emolyn 


Cruel to be Kind . 


47 


Palmer just as soon as I can induce her to fix a day. I 
say this not in defiance of your wishes, sir, but that 
there may be no misapprehension of my intentions,” 
concluded the young man as he bowed and retired. 

“ Stubborn as a mule,” said the commodore, as he 
sank back in his seat. “ I must see the girl. With her 
I shall have more success.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

CRUEL TO BE KIND. 

When I had seen this hot love on the wing, 

As I perceived it first, I tell you that, 

If I had played the desk, or table book, 

Or given my heart a winking mute and dumb, 

Or looked upon this love with idle sight — 

What might you think? No, I went round to work, 

And my young mistress thus did I bespeak : 

* This must not be and then I precepts gave her, 

That she should keep herself from his resort. 

Admit no messengers, receive no tokens. 

Which done, she took the fruits of my advice, 

And him repulsed, 

Shakespeare. 

Em. was sitting alone in Mrs. Bruce’s room, her hands 
busily engaged with needlework and her thoughts with 
something else, when the little maid, Liza, entered and 
said : 

“ Miss Em., ole Marse Commodore sent me to ax 
yer how he want to see yer in the study.” 

The young girl, who thought that Commodore 
Bruce only wanted her to read to him, promptly laid 
aside her work, and arose, saying : 


I 48 


Em's Hits band. 


“ Very well. I will go at once ; and Liza, will yon 
please to tell Mrs. Bruce that the commodore has sent 
for me, so that she may know why I am absent ?” 

“ Yes, Miss, I’ll tell her ; but, la ! marse is marse and 
missus bofe here ! Nobody ain’t no call to make no 
’scuses to any missus when ole marse wants ’em, I tell 
you that,” replied Liza, as she followed the seamstress 
from the room. 

Em. went down to the study. 

She found the old man still in his dressing-gown and 
skull-cap, seated in his leathern arm-chair, beside the 
table. 

The chair just vacated by Ronald Bruce still stood 
before him. 

As Em. entered he leaned back wearily, and sighed. 

“ You sent for me, sir,” said the girl, as she drew 
near. 

“ Yes, child. Take this seat in front of me. I wish 
to talk to you,” he answered, gently. 

Em. sat down, feeling somewhat embarrassed to be 
so near and so directly under the eyes of Commodore 
Bruce. 

But the old man gazed kindly down on her drooping 
face and thought how much it looked like that of his 
poor lost boy, Lonny, when the latter was a lad and 
was under rebuke for some childish fault. 

“ Do not be afraid of me, my dear,” he said, gently, 
as he observed her confusion. 

“ I am not afraid, only — ” Em. began and stopped. 

“ You are not afraid, only you are afraid. You think 
I am going to talk to you of Ronald. Is it not so ?” 

Em. could not speak ; she bowed and caught her 
breath. 

“You are right, my child,” answered the commodore, 
and then he dropped his head upon his chest until his 


CriLel to be Kind. 


149 


long, gray beard swept to his waist, and he fell into 
silent thought. 

It had been hard to open the subject with the young 
man ; it was very much harder to do so with the young 
girl. 

At length he raised his head, and looking at her very 
kindly, said : 

“Little Em., I do not know that I can give you a 
wiser lesson or do you a greater service than by telling 
you two little incidents in my life’s experience as 
examples. Will you listen ?” 

“ Yes, sir,” breathed the girl in tones so low that 
the words scarcely reached his ears. 

“ When I was a young man, I fell desperately in love. 
You smile, Em. ; but fifty years ago I was a young man 
of twenty years, and, as I said, desperately in love with 
a pretty, amiable, but illiterate and humbly-born girl. 
I wished to marry her, but my father and mother were 
bitterly opposed to the match. The controversy ran 
high. It almost estranged me from my parents. At 
length there was a compromise. I agreed to wait 
a year until I should be of age, before proposing 
to my love. And they agreed, in the event of my con- 
tinuing to desire the marriage at the end of that time, 
to withdraw their opposition. I was soon after ordered 
to sea for a three years’ voyage. ‘ The end of that 
time ’ found me at the antipodes — at the port of Canton 
— more interested in the manners and customs of the 
Chinese, than in the image of ‘the girl I left behind 
me.' Even if it had been practical for me to do so, I 
know that I should not then have claimed my parents’ 
promise of their consent to my proposal of marriage to 
her. I had got over my ‘ puppy ’ love, as they probably 
anticipated that I would when they enticed me into 
that compromise which was our salvation.” 


Em's Husband. 


150 


As the old man uttered these words he looked wist- 
fully at Em. 

She had been rosy red under his scrutiny before, but 
now she was marble white ; her eyes were fixed upon 
the floor, and her fingers were clasped tightly together 
on her lap. 

He gazed at her pityingly for a moment, then sighed, 
and took up the thread of discourse. 

“ I say 4 ours ’ child, for when I returned from my 
three years’ voyage I found my fair one the happy wife 
of a handsome young workman, and the proud mother 
of a bouncing boy. It was a shock to my vanity, but it 
was a relief to my heart. I was all right ; ‘but I felt a 
little anxious to know whether she was. I called to see 
her as an old friend. She received me with frank cor- 
diality, and showed me her baby and made me stay to 
tea to see her husband. When he came home she met 
him, and hurried him up stairs ‘ to clean himself,’ as she 
told me. And when at length he joined us at the tea- 
table, she took my breath away by introducing me as 
‘ an old beau ’ of hers, who had been ‘ awful spoony ’ on 
her at one time, adding, with more frankness than 
delicacy : 

“ ‘ And, you know, I’d married you then , if the old 
man and old woman hadn’t raised such an awful row 
and kept you from asking me ! But, Lord ! ain’t 
I glad they did ! For, soon after that, I met my Charley 
here at a picnic, and we were married three weeks after- 
wards. And every day, when I think of it, I feel so 
awful glad, for I wouldn’t give my Charley for a Secre- 
tary of the Navy, let alone a little middy, who would 
be rushing off to sea every whipstitch and leaving me 
alone nearly all the time. One better be a widow 
at once than sich a wife !’ she concluded, with a loud 
laugh. 


Cruel to be Kind. 


J5 


“ Well, Em., I was, at the same time, and by the same 
means, humbled and relieved. Two years after that I 
met the woman who became my wife. Our marriage 
was so happy that one of my brightest anticipations of 
the next life is that of meeting her, with whom I hope 
to spend eternity. As for the well united young couple 
who are the subjects of my story, they lived and pros- 
pered. In the course of years the young workman rose 
to be a partner in the firm in whose service he had com- 
menced as porter. They are still living, though both 
over seventy, and — a curious coincidence, Em. — their 

son, the Honorable , is now Secretary of the 

Navy and my superior officer. Now, what do you think 
of my first love, Em.?” cheerfully inquired the commo- 
dore. 

“ I think— I hope — I pray," faltered the girl, keeping 
her eyes fixed upon the floor, and twisting and untwist- 
ing her clasped fingers,” that all first love is not so fickle 
as yours and hers.” 

“ Ah, humph ! humph ! I might have expected that 
answer, of course. But now, my dear, as I began by 
saying that I had two incidents in my experience to re- 
late to you for your instruction, and as I have told you 
the first story, which does not seem to have edified you 
much, I will now tell you the second. Will you 
listen ?” 

“Oh, yes, sir,” sighed Em. 

“ Well ! At the very time that 1 was so insane on 
the subject of my first and most ill-placed love, I had a 
schoolmate, a young medical student, who was madder 
than I was. He loved to frenzy the beautiful daughter 
of a poor, ignorant workingman. She was beautiful, 
but beauty was her only attraction. Her intelligence 
was very low, and her temper unhappy. But notwith- 
standing this, my young friend, ensnared by her beauty 


Em? s Husband. 


and his own eyes, and in defiance of all his family and 
friends, married her. I do not know how much or how 
little of happiness they enjoyed in the first years of 
their marriage, for I was at sea, and our paths lay 
apart. But in after time, when they had a growing 
family around them, they had gone so far apart that 
they were completely estranged. They hated each 
other with a deep and grievous hatred. They often 
reproached each other with great bitterness and venom. 
She was a ‘ millstone around his neck,’ pulling him 
down and keeping him down in the social scale. She 
could not, perhaps, help being so. But he blamed and 
despised her for this, and she hated and upbraided him 
because he blamed and despised her. The children of 
that wretched household were both in temperament 
and in position very unhappy. They left home as soon 
as through marriage or employment they could escape 
from it. Not one of them has succeeded in life. Much 
of this family misery might have been hidden from the 
world, for the man, in this respect, was wise and reticent, 
but the woman was silly and blatant, and flaunted her 
domestic troubles in the face of every friend who came 
near her. The worst was — ” 

“ Oh, please, please tell me no more !” exclaimed Em. 
instinctively putting her hands to her ears. 

The commodore looked at her and smiled. 

“ Oh, I beg pardon, sir : but it was so dreadful,” said 
the girl, apologetically, as she took down her hands. 

“ My child, if this state of things is so dreadful to 
hear , what must it be to bear V' inquired the old man, 
with incisive earnestness. 

“ Oh, why do you tell me these sad stories ?” said 
Em., almost on the verge of tears. 

“ For an example and a warning, my child. Listen, 


Cruel to be Kind. 


153 


little girl. My nephew, Ronald, loves you, or fancies 
that he does.” 

Em.’s complexion, that had been marble white before, 
now suddenly flushed scarlet all over face, neck and 
bosom. The old man noticed it ; but continued ruth- 
lessly : 

“ Ronald is of age, is his own master, and has a pro- 
fession that will enable him to support a wife in decent 
competency. He can therefore marry whom he will, 
and in open defiance of his family and friends, if he 
pleases. He will probably ask you to marry him, Em. 
If so, what will be your reply ?” 

“ I will wait until he does ask me, sir, and then I will 
give him my reply,” said Em., with gentle dignhy. 

“ Humph ! humph ! humph ! I hope it will be a 
\ proper one, Miss Palmer. If you consent to marry 
Ronald Bruce, I will tell you what then will be your 
fate. It will be that of the woman I have just described 
jto you. Ronald loves you now , or thinks he does. He 
will marry you, if he can ; but his love, such as it is, will 
not last — cannot last; He will tire of you in a few 
weeks or months, at longest ; he will then dislike you — 
perhaps hate you — because, by having accepted his first 
offer of marriage, you will come between him and his 
inheritance, as, indeed, you will have done ; for I will 
never leave this place to my nephew except on the 
condition that he marries my niece ; for those two are 
my only heirs, and I will not have the property divided. 
Should Ronald marry any other than Hermia I shall 
leave the estate to her. So you see, my dear girl, into 
what depths of ruin you will cast both Ronald and your- 
I self Iby accepting him. He will be an impoverished, 
disappointed and regretful husband. You will be that 
most miserable of all women — a despised wife.” 


r 54 


Em's Husband. 


Em. uttered a little impulsive, half-suppressed cry, 
and hid her face in her hands. 

But after a few moments she recovered herself, and 
with something of gentle dignity arose and stood before 
the old man. 

Resting one hand on the table, she raised her eyes to 
his, looked him steadily but modestly in the face, and 
said : 

“ I do not think that this would be the result of our 
marriage, should Mr. Bruce renew his offer and I ac- 
cept it. If I should ever marry, my husband should 
never despise me. Be sure of that. But, Commodore 
Bruce, have no fears of me. Set your heart at rest. I 
would never enter any family who were opposed to 
receiving me ; nor, were I inclined to do so, would my 
father and mother consent ; nor, finally, could I take 
any course against their will. To-morrow my father 
will come for me to go home and spend Sunday. I 
shall take leave of you and then depart, not to return.” 

She ceased to speak, and was about to go away, 
when the words of the commodore arrested her steps. 

“ Now I have hurt you, my child. I did not mean to 
do so. I beg your pardon, Em. Ah ! it was very cruel 
to wound you.” 

“ No — yes — no,” said the girl, in some distress. Then 
raising her eyes to his, and seeing the pale, old, anxious 
face, her heart melted towards him. She lifted his 
withered hand and pressed it to her lips, turned and 
left the room. 

“ She has the spring of a fine spirit under all her 
downy softness. I don’t wonder at poor Ronald. 
Upon my sacred word and honor I don’t! What a 
pity /” sighed the old commodore to himself. 

Meanwhile Em. fled to her attic chamber. And not 


Cruel to be Kind . 


l 55 


until she had locked herself in did she give way to the 
storm of emotion that overwhelmed her. 

She threw herself, weeping, on the bed and wept long 
and bitterly. 

The summer gust of tears refreshed her, as a thunder 
gust refreshes nature. With a healthful reaction she 
felt better after it had passed. 

She arose and re-arranged her disordered dress, and 
went down stairs to Mrs. Bruce's room and resumed 
her needlework and sewed diligently until luncheon 
time. 

There were two vigilant eavesdroppers in that house, 
and all the walls had ears. So it had already become 
known in the family that Em. was going away the next 
day, not to return, and so throughout the hour of lunch 
they all, with two exceptions, treated her with distin- 
guished kindness. The exceptions were Commodore 
Bruce, who always had used her^well, and now made 
no change, and Ronald Bruce, who spoke to no one if he 
could help it, but sat and sulked through the whole 
meal. 

After lunch Em. hurried up to Mrs. Bruce’s room 
and took her work, being desirous of doing her whole 
duty by her employer. 

And, for the short remainder of her stay, the girl 
worked very diligently, confining herself all day long to 
Mrs. Bruce’s room, and even taking her work to the 
attic and stitching half the night. 

She never saw Ronald Bruce except at meal times, 
and then never spoke with him beyond the conven- 
tional greeting. 

Before Saturday evening at six o’clock she had com- 
pleted her last piece of work, and handed it over to 
Mrs. Bruce. 

Then she packed her trunk and her hand-bag, 


Em's Husband. 


156 


diessed herself for her journey home, and sat down 
before the portrait of Lonny Bruce to gaze at it and 
enjoy it, while waiting for the arrival of her father. 

At a few minutes after six o’clock Liza entered the 
attic chamber and said : 

“ If you please, Miss Em., your father has come for 
you. And my missus sent you dis, and ax you will you 
send her a deceit for it. And Mose is outside de door, 
waitin’ to carry down your trunk to de wagon.” 

“ Very well, Liza, tell Mose to come in,” said Em. 

Then, while the man was carrying down her trunk, 
she opened the blank envelope that had been handed 
to her by Liza, and fotmd in it three dollars — her week’s 
wages. 

Now Em. could never have told why, at the sight of 
that money, the blood rushed to her head and flooded 
all her face and neck with fiery flushes. But certainly 
she quickly replaced the notes in the envelope, damp- 
ened the gummed edges with her lips and sealed it, 
and then took a pencil from her pocket, turned the en- 
velope face up on the mantel-shelf, and standing there, 
directed it to Mrs. Bruce. 

u Here, Liza, take this to your mistress,” she said, 
handing it to the girl. 

“ Is this the deceit ?” inquired Liza. 

“ It is the best sort of receipt,” replied Em. 

Then she gave Liza a belt and buckle for a keepsake, 
and sent by her a woolen neck-scarf to Mose. 

“ Now, I’ll go down,” she said to herself, “ and take 
leave of the dear old man, for, somehow, I love him, 
though he breaks my heart.” 

She ran nimbly down the stairs and into the study, 
but, instead of the commodore, there sat Ronald Bruce 
in the big, leathern chair. 

“ Oh, Ronald ! I expected to find your uncle, to bid 


Home Again. 


157 


him good-by !” exclaimed Em., glad, but frightened, at 
this unexpected meeting with her lover at the last mo- 
ment. 

“ Oh, Em. ! Do you grudge me these few minutes ? 
My uncle went out to speak to your father, to try to 
prevail on him to come in. I knew you would come 
here to take leave of him, and so I just slipped in to 
receive you. Ah ! Em., are you indeed going for good ?” 

“ Yes, Ronald, in every sense of the w r ord, I am going 
for good. It is not good for either of us that I should 
remain here. Good-by, Ronald ! I know my father is 
waiting for me.” 

“ Good afternoon, but not good-by ! I will see you 
to-morrow, Em., and see your father also ! What ! not 
one parting kiss ?” he complained, as she firmly repulsed 
his offered salute. “ Then I will see you to your car- 
riage, ‘ whether or no,’ ” he added, with a rueful smile, 
as he followed her out of the house. 


CHAPTER XV. 

HOME AGAIN. 

Now soon your home will greet you 
And ready kindness meet you, 

And love that will not flee. 

Percival. 

They found John Palmer standing at the head of a 
powerful white mare, before a large, old-fashioned 
gig- 

Em. had not seen her father for a week, and during 
that separation from him she had, for some incompre- 
hensible reason, thought of him only from first impres- 


158 


Em's Husband. 


sions — as she had known him in Laundry Lane — gaunt, 
sallow, dark, stooping. She was now, for the first time, 
struck with the change that had come over him since he 
had lived the more wholesome life of the mountaineer, 
as he stood there, erect, tall, strong, handsome, and, in 
spite of his hair turning “ sable silvered/’ younger look- 
ing than she had ever known him. 

He stood, listening to the discourse of Commodore 
Bruce, hat in hand, in deference to age, not rank. 

A thrill of fear shook the girl’s nerves as she saw 
them. What were they discussing so earnestly ? 
Ronald and herself ? Oh ! why would old folks inter- 
fere so much with poor, young lovers ? It was like 
picking the hearts out of flowers, she thought to 
herself, as she shrank for a moment before approach- 
ing them. 

But no ! what a relief ! They were not talking of 
Ronald or herself. They were talking of crops, stocks, 
finances — or at least Commodore Bruce was talking, and 
John was listening. 

As Em. came up the commodore ceased to speak, 
and John turned toward her, saying : 

“ Well, my dear, are you all already ? I am glad to get 
you back again, lass, I tell you. I never knew how 
lonesome a house full of people could be, Em., until 
you were gone. But * sich is life,’ ” he added, as he 
kissed her, and gave his hand to lift her into the gig. 

“ And, oh, I am glad to see you again, father, dear, 
good father ! There is Lieutenant Bruce,” she whis- 
pered, as he settled her comfortably in her seat. 

“ Ah ! how do you do, Lieutenant ? Happy to see 
you, sir. Very happy ! You have been away since I 
saw you last ?” heartily exclaimed John, as he seized 
and shook the young man’s hand, adding, “ Sorry I 
cannot stop to have a good talk with you now ; but it is 


Home Again. 


159 


getting late. It will be dark before we get home, and 
the roads are dreadful.” 

“ Yes, yes !” exclaimed the old commodore, who did 
not approve of this friendliness, under all the circum- 
stances. “Yes? the roads are very dangerous to be 
traveled after dark ! Don’t stand talking to Mr. Pal- 
mer and keeping him here all night, Ronald !” 

Ronald had not said a word up to this moment. John 
had done all the talking. Now, however, the young 
man warmly shook the hand of the overseer, saying : 

“ I will not detain you now T , much as I should like to 
do so, but I will drop in on you very soon.” 

“ Do , do , do, now ; and the sooner you do the better ! 
You’ll always find a plate at the table, and a bed in the 
house, heartily at your service,” earnestly exclaimed 
the unsuspicious John, as he stepped into the gig, 
seated himself beside his daughter, and took the reins 
in his hands. 

“ Good-by, Commodore Bruce,” said Em., bending 
from her seat and holding out her hand. “ Please make 
my excuses and adieux to the ladies. I did not see any 
of them as I came out. They were all in their rooms.” 

“ Dressing for dinner — a fearfully long task for them, 
my dear. I will give them your message, though they 
don’t deserve it. Good-by, and God bless you, my 
dear,” said the old man, pressing a kiss upon her bent 
forehead, and withdrawing. 

“ Good-by, Lieutenant,” said Em., in a lower and less 
assured tone, as she doubtfully held out her hand. 

“ Good-night ; but not good-by. I shall see you very, 
very soon. To-morroiu afternoon ,” he added, in a lower 
tone, as he raised her hand and pressed it to his lips, 
and in his turn withdrew. 

“ They seem main fond of you, at that house, Em.,” 
said John Palmer, as they drove through the end gate, 


6o 


Em.'s Husband. 


and took the roundabout road leading down the moun- 
tain side. “ But, Lord ! who wouldn’t be fond of her," 
he mentally added, in a meditative mood. 

“ They were very kind to me, father," answered the 
girl, who found it a hard task to speak steadily and 
without tears. 

“Why, yes; the old man and the young one took 
leave of you as lovingly as if you’d a been the sister of 
one and the daughter o’ t’other." 

“ Are they all well at home, father ?” inquired Em. 

“ Every one as well as can be," heartily responded 
John. “ And now, little daughter, I know how hard it 
is for a girl to hold her tongue, under any circumstances, 
especially when she has been away a week from home ; 
but just try to keep quiet, my dear, until we get to the 
foot of this mountain, for it will take all my attention 
to look after Queen Bess," said John, as he tightened 
the reins of the mare, to hold her up in going down 
hill. 

“ Very well, father ; but remember, I am loving you 
all the time, although I am not telling you so,” said 
Em., with an attempt at a smile, which, even if she had 
succeeded, could not have been seen by him for whom 
it was intended, for the short though brilliant twilight 
of the autumn had faded away, and it was growing 
dark in the wooded mountain-road. 

They drove on slowly and in silence, winding down 
the mountain side. 

An hour’s careful driving brought them down to the 
foot of the precipice and to the banks of the river. 

Then John paused for a few moments to rest his 
horse. 

“The old commodore was main fond of you, Em.” 

“ Yes, father, and I of him, too !’’ 

“ Indeed ! Were you now ? That’s odd ! He said 



f 











































. 


. 



















. 

fi - 

- 








* 


. • 







. 









a. 
























Home A ga in . 1 6 1 


he wanted you to stay with him as his reader and 
writer, after you had got through w T ith Mrs. Bruce’s 
sewing, but you declined.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ I am glad of it ! Why, Em., what on earth should 
an edicated old gentleman like him, with a good pair of 
spectacles, want of a reader and writer, especially a 
young girl like you ? It is all in my eye, Em. ! The 
old man wanted to marry you ! A thing as your 
mother and I never would have consented to, no, not if 
he had been as rich as Creases /” 

“ Oh, oh, oh, father !” cried Em., in a perfect ecstacy 
of horror. “ It was nothing like that ! Nothing, no- 
thing like that ! He never would have dreamed of 
such a dreadful thing ! . Oh, no, no, no ! Oh, father, 
how could you dream of such — oh, father !” 

“ I don’t know, Em. These aged old gentlemen, 
when they are widowers, are perfect wampires after 
young wives, and think they can buy a pretty one for 
money, j ust as easy as a heathen could go buy a girl in 
one o’ them slave markets in London or Paris, or some 
o’ them Pagan nations where they sell young women 
for wives. Wish one on ’em would come after you, Em.! 
I would send him home with a wasp in his ear that 
would make him dance livelier ’n he did in his boyhood’s 
days ! Would be almost as good for him as a young 
wife ! — Are you cold, child ? Wrap your shawl closer 
around you ; you are shivering.” 

“ No, father, dear, but this talk is horrible,” said the 
girl shuddering. 

“ Glad to hear it ! It was so intended ! And now I 
hope you won’t think any more of marrying a rich old 
dotard and being made a lady of that way /” said John, 
Sturdily. 


1 62 


Em's Husband 


“ Oh, father, I never did think of it ; nor no one else 
that I know of except you !” 

“ Glad to hear that, too ! Hope you never will ! No, 
Em.! no rich old husbands for you ! I want you to 
have a happy life, my girl. By and by, when the prop- 
er time shall come, I hope you will wed some good and 
good-looking young fellow of your own rank, with whom 
you will be as happy as your mother and I have been 
all our lives. Yes, the Lord knows, and I thank him,” 
said John, reverently raising his hat, “ that we have 
been very happy in spite of poverty, sickness, death 
and the common ills that come to us all. For what is 
this life but a climbing-place to the higher ? And what 
are these troubles but the stones that must sometimes 
bruise our feet, and the thorns that may pierce our 
flesh ? When a faithful, loving pair travel this upward 
road together, Em., they do not mind these troubles by 
the way. So I hope, my girl, that some day you may 
be the wife of some honest young fellow of your own 
class, and not the toy and slave of a rich old husband. 
But there, I won’t preach any longer. Queen Bess is 
tossing her head and shaking her ears in impatient 
scorn of my discourse. She wants to get home to her 
stall and her oats,” said John, laughing, as he started 
the white mare. 

“ And she is no better tempered than her namesake,” 
said Em., as they went along. 

The rest of the road home was short and easy, leading 
along the banks of the river, with the woods on one side 
and the water on the other, and then by a short angle 
leading through the thicket up to the park gate, which 
was wide open to receive them, with old ’Sias on the 
watch to welcome them. 

Little old ’Sias grinned literally “ from ear to ear ” 


Home Again. 


163 


as he bowed and continued to bow, while the gig rolled 
through the gate. 

“ I am so glad to see you again, Uncle ’Sias ! Come 
up to the house and talk with us this evening,” said Em. 

“ So I will, Miss ! ’Deed I feel as you’d been gone a 
year, more or less !” returned the old man. 

But they were soon out of hearing, for Queen Bess, 
finding herself so near home, mended her pace, nor 
thought of slacking it until she was drawn up in front 
of the old red wing. 

It was soon quite dark, but a cheerful firelight gleamed 
through the open doors and unshaded windows of 
the house. 

All the family came forth to meet Em. with joyful 
welcomes, as though she had been absent on a six years’ 
tour in a foreign country instead of a six days’ sojourn 
in the immediate neighborhood. 

Mother, sisters, and brothers took her in their arms 
in turn, and warmly embraced and kissed her, while the 
little Italian girl danced frantically around, among 
them all, waiting for a chance to get at her “ Caressima,” 
as she continually called Em. 

“ Now, Tom, run and put up the horse and gig. 
You can do the rest of your welcoming after you come 
back,” said John. 

The youth ran off to obey his father, and the family 
party entered the house and passed on into the sitting- 
room, where a fire of pine logs and cones was blazing 
up the chimney, lighting up the whole house. 

Here Ann Whitlock and Aunt Monica were both en- 
gaged in putting finishing touches on the neatly-set tea- 
table, where extra dainties had been placed in honor of 
the daughter’s return. 

But both the old women left off work and ran to 
welcome their favorite. 


6 4 


Em! s Husband. 


“ No, let Em. go up stairs and take off her things — 
do !" said Molly, carrying her sister off in triumph. 

“ See now what a nice fire Ned kindled for you, Em. 
Isn’t it just splendid to have such a grand plenty 
of wood, that we can make a roaring fire to warm 
a great room like this ?” said Nelly, who had followed 
her sister to the attic. 

“ 1 brought all the cones to kindle with, wyself,” 
added little Vennie, who came creeping up behind all 
the rest. 

Em. turned and kissed the little creature, and then 
unpacked her trunk, which her father and Ned had al- 
ready brought up to her room. 

Assisted by busy and affectionate little helpers, Em. 
soon got through her task, and leaving her chamber in 
perfect order, and followed by a bevy of little sisters, 
she hurried down stairs to the sitting-room, where all 
the rest of the family were waiting for her. 

As soon as she entered tea was placed on the table, 
and they all sat down to it. 

The father of the family asked a blessing, and then 
they all fell to with good appetites and fine spirits. 

Ah ! how different was the atmosphere of this lowly, 
loving, merry party to that proud, cold, gloomy circle 
she had left behind ! Coming from one to the other 
was like passing from purgatory into Paradise. It was 
almost worth parting with Ronald to experience such 
a change. 

Almost ! not quite, as the aching from the depths of 
her heart seemed to assure her. 

She had loved Ronald Bruce from the first hour she 
had met him — when he had saved her life by laying her 
brutal assailant stunned at her feet. She had loved him 
involuntarily, secretly, silently — never dreaming that her 
love was but the response of his own unspoken passion. 


Home Again. 


165 


Now she knew he loved her, and had loved her from 
their first meeting-. Ronald Bruce, who had traveled 
all over the world, and had mixed with the best society- 
in many countries, and who from his position and 
prospects might have chosen his wife from almost any 
class — had overlooked all others to choose her , Em., 
above all other women — to choose her, who had neither 
wealth, position or accomplishments — nothing but her- 
self. And if she had loved him at first she adored him 
now ! Oh, how she longed for all the advantages that 
might make her as acceptable to Ronald’s family, as, 
without any of them, she was to him ! 

Even seated in the sweet circle of this pure, unselfish 
family affection, these thoughts troubled her peace. 

No wonder, then, that in the solitude of her own attic 
chamber, when she had retired to rest that night, that 
they should destroy her repose. 

Em. lay wide awake all night thinking, dreaming. 

Now tempting thoughts came to the troubled, wake- 
ful dreamer, “ in the waste and middle of the night.” 

Em. remembered Ronald’s last words whispered in 
her ear, just as he left her seated in the gig by her 
father’s side. “ To-morrow afternoon ,” he had said. 

To-morrow afernoon, then, Ronald would be sure to 
make his appearance. He would be sure to ask her 
father for her, as he had declared he would. 

Her father liked Ronald very much, she knew ; but 
he would never listen to his suit for her hand, unless 
that suit came authorized by Ronald’s uncle. And so 
it would never come. And so her father would refuse 
her to Ronald, and would probably request him to 
refrain from visiting the house. 

Then Ronald would be sure to seek an interview 
with her, and he would press her to end all their 
trouble by marrying him at once, 


Em!s Husband. 


1 66 


Now, why — the tempter asked her — should she not 
take him at his word ? These old people — the evil-one 
whispered — whose pride and stubbornness were separat- 
ing Ronald and herself, were interfering with their 
loves beyond all reason and justice. They had no right 
to make two young people wretched all their lives. 
They could not do so, if Ronald should have his own 
way. And nothing obstructed that but Em.’s own 
scruples. Ronald’s and her happiness now depended 
upon herself alone. Why should she not make sure of 
it by accepting him as her husband ? A few hours’ 
travel would take them into Maryland, where they 
could be legally married, although she was not of age. 
Then they would instantly return to the manor-house 
and ask forgiveness. 

Her gentle father, her tender mother, would be sure 
to forgive them on the asking. Then they would be 
happy. 

Yes ; but that father and mother ! Should she 
wound those gentle and tender hearts by an act of dis- 
obedience that would be nothing less than a cruel 
insult to them, receive it however charitably they 
might ? 

And then her promise to Commodore Bruce, whom 
she loved, though he did almost break her heart ! 

Em. could come to no decision on her future course 
of action. 

Act as she might, she could not escape suffering In 
herself and causing suffering to others. 

Thus thinking and dreaming, she lay wide awake all 
night, and was glad when she saw the dawn of morning 
through the uncurtained eastern windows of her room. 

She arose and mended her fire, replenishing it from 
the box of fuel in the corner. Then she bathed and 


167 


Home Again. 


dressed, offered up her morning prayers and went down 
stairs. 

It was now sunrise, and the sunshine was filling the 
sitting-room, where all the family were assembled for 
morning worship. 

They greeted Em. affectionately and then seated her 
among them. 

The father opened the family Bible and read a chap- 
ter, and then reverently closed it and led their devotions. 

After this, breakfast was placed upon the table. 

It was while handing her daughter a cup of coffee 
that Susan Palmer looked in Em.’s face and exclaimed : 

“ I do declare, child, that your week’s stay at the old 
commodore’s hasn’t improved you much ! I didn’t 
notice it last night by candle-light, but now I see you 
by day-light, you are as pale as a ghost.” 

“ Yes, that she is,” chimed in several of the others. 

“ It is sitting so much over her needle ! She sha’n't 
do it again, that is certain,” said John, positively. 

“ No, she sha’n’t, and I am glad this is Sunday, so 
she may have a complete rest,” added Susan. 

The nearest church was thirty miles off ; so John 
Palmer’s family could only attend it once a month, on 
communion days, when they had to take a Saturday 
afternoon’s journey and stay over until Monday 
morning. 

But whether they were privileged to go to church, or 
compelled to stay at home, the Sabbath was always con- 
scientiously observed by them. 

After breakfast, when order was restored, John Pal- 
mer assembled his family and read the morning service, 
every member of the household taking part in it. 

They had always a nice, appetizing Sunday dinner, 
though no cooking was ever done beyond boiling water 


Em.'s Husband. 


1 68 


to make tea or coffee, and warming over the soup and 
meat that had been prepared the day before. 

After dinner each individual pleased himself or her- 
self by reading, walking, talking, or sleeping. 

This particular Sunday afternoon, however, all the 
family were assembled around the fire in the sitting- 
room, questioning Em. concerning her week’s sojourn 
on the mountain, and she was telling them all she 
could communicate without unvailing the mystery of 
her own heart. 

While they were all thus engaged, the old gate-keeper, 
’Sias, put his head in at the door and said : 

“ Young Marse Lieutenant Ronald Bruce have come 
to see you, sar, and would like to pay his dispects, 
if conwenient.” 

“ Mr. Bruce ! Well, 1 declare !” exclaimed Susan 
Palmer, in surprise. 

“ Humph ! I thought as much !” said Ann Whitlock, 
significantly. 

“ Am I to denounce de young ge’man into de house ?” 
inquired old 'Sias. 

“ Yes, certainly,” cordially responded John Palmer, 
while Em.’s heart bounded with delight. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

PROPOSALS. 

Heaven, forming each on other to depend, 

As master, or as servant, or as friend, 

Bids each on other for assistance call, 

Till one man’s weakness makes the strength of all. 
Wants, frailties, passions closer still ally 
The common interest, or endear the tie. 

To these we owe true friendship, love sincere. 

Each home-felt joy that life inherits here. 

Pope. 

Ronald Bruce came in smiling. All the family arose 
* to receive him. 

“ Don’t let me disturb you, pray. How do you do, # 
Mr. Palmer ! And you, madam !” said the young man, 
shaking hands with John, bowing to Susan, and then 
pressing the hand of Em. before he finally subsided 
into the chair set for him by Tom. 

“ Hope you left the commodore and all the family 
well, sir ?” hospitably inquired John. 

“ Quite well, thank you, Mr. Palmer. And I have no 
doubt, if they had known I was coming here, they 
would have sent kindest remembrances to you and 
your daughter,” replied Ronald Bruce. 

“ Oh ! They didn’t know you were coming, then ?” 

“ No. They were all taking their Sunday afternoon 
naps in their chambers when I left home. 

[169] 


i ;o 


Em's Husband. 


“Ah ! Well, I am very glad to see you, Lieuten- 
ant, I am sure ! Always take such pleasure in your sea- 
stories ! It’s almost like going to sea myself to hear 
you ! And — well, I was thinking only fo-day that the 
first time I should see you I would ask you how you 
spend Sundays on board ship. How do you, anyhow ?” 

“ Well,” laughed the young man, “ as variously 
as you do on land. It depends on the character of the 
captain of the ship at sea, as it does on the master of 
the house ashore. Of course, much of the routine of 
ship duty must go on, just as some housework must be 
done. If the captain of the ship is a religious man we 
have divine service in the forenoon. In the afternoon 
every one spends his leisure as he pleases. I remember 
one Sunday afternoon — ” 

And here, to please his desired father-in-law, Ronald 
Bruce launched into a sea-story that soon absorbed all 
the attention of the family party. 

Even old 'Sias and Aunt Monica stepped in and sat 
down in an obscure corner to listen. And not until it 
was finished could Mrs. Whitlock make up her mind 
* to steal away and prepare an extra supper for the guest. 

Then old Monica and Uncle ’Sias followed to lend 
their aid. 

“ I never see such idiwuts as John Palmer and Susan 
is ! Do they think as that young hossifer comes here 
for the pleasure of seeing them, I wonder ? Why don’t 
they all make some excuse and leave the young folks 
together, and give ’em a chance !” burst forth Mrs. 
Whitlock, as soon as she found herself in the kitchen. 

“ If he comes here after Miss Em., dey is right not to 
give him a chance to court her, ’cause no good can’t 
come out’n that ; he being of a rich young gentleman, 
an’ she — ” 


Proposals . 


i/i 


“ A lady , every inch of her,” broke in Mrs. Whit- 
lock, cutting Aunt Monica’s speech short. 

“ And so she may be in her ways an’ manners, an’ I 
don’t deny so she is. But, la ! dat ain’t what his people 
would look at. Ole Marse Commodore Bruce in partic- 
ular. Why, chillun, I used to know dat ole man good, 
an’ hear him talk, when he came to our old Marse Captain 
Wyndeworth’s oyster suppers. Bless patience, honeys, 
blood was his first ’sideration, an’ money was his second, 
an’ dat was all he would look at. An’ ’less our young 
gal had blood an’ money, he’d never 'sent to ’ceiving 
her inter de Bruce famberly.” 

“ I’d risk it,” said Ann Whitlock, as she addressed 
herself to the task of preparing a dainty supper for the 
guest, to tempt him to repeat his visits, if other induce- 
ments besides Em. should be necessary. 

Meanwhile, in the parlor, John Palmer engaged the vis- 
itor’s attention exclusively, keeping him so busy in tell- 
ing sea stories that the young man was in peril of hav- 
ing to draw upon his imagination, as well as upon his 
memory. 

Ronald got no opportunity of speaking a single word 
in confidence to Em. 

Even when supper was announced and he drew the 
girl’s arm within his own to take her to the table, the 
family massed so closely that he could not even get a 
chance to breathe a syllable in her ear on the way to 
the dining-room. 

While the family were at supper, Ann Whitlock busily 
prepared the spare room up stairs for the accommo- 
dation of their guests, saying to herself, as she laid 
hickory logs across the andirons to build a cheerful fire : 

“/ will make everything as pleasant as possible for 
him, anyhow, so ^s to ’tice him to come often. And 
I’ll ’courage ’em to get married, too, no matter what 


1 72 


Em!s Husband \ 


nobody says. Once they’re safe married nobody can't 
unmarry ’em. That’s so!” 

After supper, when the family were re-gathered 
around the parlor fire, the sea stories were resumed, 
and never had a story-teller a more attentive and ap- 
preciative audience than had Ronald Bruce in John 
Palmer and his household. 

When the usual bed-time came, however, Susan 
Palmer began to grow restless, and as soon as Mr. Bruce 
came to the end of the tale he was then telling, she got 
up and lighted a candle, and put it in the hand of her 
husband, saying : 

“ I reckon, John, as Mr. Bruce is about tired, and 
you’d better show him to his room.” 

“ Now, I do reckon he can find it for himself !” said 
John, laughing, as he passed the candle over to Ronald, 
and added : “ It’s the same room you occupied before, 
sir, and you know the way to it.” 

“ Certainly,” replied the young man, smilingly ; and 
then more gravely he added: “I came here, Mr. 
Palmer, especially to seek a private interview with you 
on a matter of very great importance to me, at least. 
Can you give me a few moments alone before I leave 
here to-morrow morning ?” 

“ Why, of course I can,” said John, staring with sur- 
prise and curiosity. 

Mr. Bruce then bowed good-night to the circle, raised 
the hand of Em. to his lips, and left the room. 

“ Now, I wonder what in the name o’ sense he ’s got 
to say to you, John ? Do you know ?” eagerly inquired 
Susan Palmer, as soon as their visitor had disappeared. 

“ Oh, something about crops, or stocks, or something ! 
You know his uncle wants him to give up the sea and 
attend to agriculture, and he knows no more o’ that 
than I do of navigation,” said John, 


Proposals. 


173 


“ Yes, I s’pose that's it,” concluded Susan. 

“ I never did see two such old goneys in my life !” 
muttered Ann Whitlock to herself. “ Between them 
both, they ’ll ruin that gal’s fortin, I know they will !” 

But nothing more was said, as the family were even 
then separating to retire. 

As Em. went up to bid her father good-night, she 
whispered these enigmatical words into his ear : 

“ Oh, father, please, please don’t deny him !*’ And she 
was gone before the startled and perplexed John could 
gather his scattered senses and ask what she meant. 

Early the next morning Ronald Bruce arose, dressed 
in haste, and hurried down stairs to seek the promised 
interview with his host. 

He found John in the parlor waiting for him. 

“ Good-morning, Mr. Bruce ! Fine, bright morning, 
sir, though we had heavy frost last night. Hope you 
slept well, sir,” said Palmer. 

“Thanks, yes, very well,” replied the young man, 
telling an involuntary fib, for he had not slept* a wink 
and had not meant to say so. 

“ I’ll just turn the key of this door, and we’ll be safe 
from interruption,” said John, suiting the action to the 
word. 

Then placing a chair for his guest and taking another 
for himself, he sat down and said : 

“ Now I am ready to hear all that you have got to 
say, Lieutenant ; but I warn you that I don’t know 
much more about crops and stocks than you do yourself.” 

“‘Crops and stocks!’” echoed the young man, in 
surprise. 

“ Yes ! Wasn’t that what you wished to consult me 
upon ?” 

“ Bless me, no !” 

“ What was it, then ?” inquired Palmer, in surprise. 


174 


Em's Husband. 


Young Bruce hesitated, in some confusion. The fact 
that the father-in-law elect seemed so utterly unpre- 
pared to hear the honor that was intended him, had the 
natural effect of making the proposal doubly embarrass- 
ing to the suitor. 

He paused for a few moments longer and then broke 
the ice suddenly by saying : 

“ Mr. Palmer, I love your daughter Emolyn, and 
I have reason to know that she likes me. I came here 
to pray you to make us both happy by consenting to our 
marriage.” 

If I were to tell you that John’s hair stood on end, 
I should not much exaggerate. His eyes fairly started 
from his head as he stared at the speaker, and faltered 
forth : 

“ Now, look a here, young gentleman, look a here ! 
Quiet yourself, like, and think a bit ! You cant know 
what you’re a talking about !” 

“ Yes, I do !” impatiently replied the young man, 
giving his dark head an irritable shake. 

“ Well, then, may be I didn’t understand you right,” 
said John, helplessly 

“ Then I will repeat what I said. I asked you if you 
would do me the honor of giving me your daughter for 
a wife,” repeated Ronald. 

“ Dear me ! Dear me ! What a pity ! I never 
thought of such a thing ! I am very sorry,” muttered 
John, in a meditative way. 

Ronald Bruce sat watching and waiting until he lost 
the last remnant of patience and broke forth with : 

“ Mr. Palmer, do you understand my question now V' 

“ Yes — yes ! Don’t get excited ! I know what you 
said ! And I know, too, what my girl meant when she 
asked me last night not to deny you ! Lord help me ! 
I feel awful cut up about it !” sighed John, running 


Proposals. 


175 


his fingers through his shock of “ pepper and salt ” 
hair. 

The young officer looked somewhat fallen in his self- 
esteem as he gazed upon the overseer, who evidently 
did not feel the honor conferred upon him as he should 
have done, and he inquired somewhat sulkily : 

“ Why should you feel ' cut up,’ as you call it, by my 
proposal ?” 

“ Oh ! because- it is like you have been making love 
to my child, and maybe getting her to be fond of you !” 
replied John, with a profound sigh, that seemed to 
come from the depth of his heart. 

“ Well, that is just exactly what I have been doing — 
in the hope of winning her for my wife, with your con- 
sent. I come now to ask that consent ; I only wait for 
that !” said Ronald, earnestly. “ And I don’t see why 
you should take the matter so very deeply to heart,*' 
he added, rather sullenly. 

John groaned and sighed, but answered nothing. 

“ May I hope for your consent to my proposal, Mr. 
Palmer ?” at length inquired the suitor. 

“ No, Mr. Bruce ! It can’t be, and it oughtn’t to be ! I 
am hurt to the very bottom of my heart to have to say 
it, but I must say it. No, Mr. Bruce, you can’t have 
Em. for your wife !” said John Palmer, firmly. 

The young man turned pale with astonishment, mor- 
tification and anger. 

“ May I ask you why you reject me ? Have you any 
objection to me personally?” he hotly demanded, as he 
! arose and stood before John. 

“ To you personally as you stand there, sir, I could 
have no possible objection. You are a very well made 
young man, sound in wind and limb, of steady habits 
and good temper, though a little spirited. No, to you 
personally I would have no objection. And if you were 


Em's Husband. 


1 76 


only a young journeyman mechanic, or a young work- 
man, I do not know any man in the world to whom I 
would sooner give my girl as a wife, or whom I would 
sooner welcome as a son-in-law ; because I like ycu, 
Lieutenant Bruce ! And if it would not sound queer 
from a man’s lips, I might almost say, I love you! That 
is what makes it so awfully cutting to have to refuse 
you ! Oh ! I wish you were a workman.” 

“ So do I, since you seem to consider it an indispensa- 
ble condition; but if you approve of me as I am, why not 
accept me as I am ?” inquired the young man, now half 
inclined to laugh and half to weep. 

John shook his gray-black head in sorrowful silence. 

“ I can’t help being an officer in the navy! but I can 
help continuing to be so, and I will resign my commis- 
sion, and take up farming if you will give me Em ! I’ll 
do it at once, next week, to-day!” 

“Yes, and repent week after next, or even to-morrow! 
No, it will not do, Mr. Bruce ! You are a gentleman born 
and not fit for Em. You can’t unmake yourself and 
make yourself over again, and, therefore, you can never 
be fit for Em. You must give up all thoughts of her 
at once and forever ! I say it, and by all my soul’s hopes 
I mean it, young sir.” 

“ But, good Heaven ! I can not and will not give her 
up ! To do so would be the ruin of our lives happiness ! ” 
exclaimed Ronald. 

“ Nonsense, young gentleman. To viarry would be 
the ruin of your lives ! Listen to me, sir. You and Em. 
are both too young to know yourselves, or to know life. 
Of course, you think now that if you could marry you 
would be perfectly happy. And so you might be for 
a few vShort weeks, while the novelty lasted. But you 
are a gentleman — she a poor man’s child. You have 
been differently brought up ; these differences would 


Proposals . 


i 77 


■crop out in course of time. You might repent of your 
marriage, think you could have done so much better if 
you could have married a lady of your own class, and 
so on — ” 

“ Believe me sir — ” began the suitor. 

“Stop ! hear me out,” said the father. “You might 
even come to despise my child, and to make her feel 
that she was despised. That would break her heart, 
and then — why, I might break you head !” 

Ronald Bruce sprang to his feet and began to stride 
up and down the room in a sort of frenzy. 

“ What in the deuce do 3 r ou take me for, Mr. Palmer,” 
he indignantly exclaimed, “ that you should think me 
capable of such baseness ! Or what do you take your 
daughter for, that you should deem it even possible that 
any man should ever ‘ despise * her ! If you were not 
her father, I would not stand quietly to hear her maiden 
dignity so affronted !” 

“ You’re not standing so very quietly just at the 
present speaking, young gentleman, unless tearing up 
and down the room like a madman means your idea of 
standing quietly ! Come, Mr. Bruce ! Come, Mr. Bruce ! 
You have no better friend on earth than I am. And 
the very friendliest thing I could do for you would be 
to put my foot down on the notion of you marrying my 
daughter. And what’s more, no girl ever had a loving- 
er father than Em. has in me, and the kindest thing I 
can do for her is to prevent her from becoming your 
wife.” 

j “ I swear by all my hopes of salvation that I will 
make Emolyn Palmer my wife in the face of all the 
world, and in defiance of all opposition !” exclaimed the 
young man, so transported with fury that he lost all 
? self-command and sense of propriety. 

(“ Now I wonder why I don’t lift him by the scruff 


i7» 


Em's Husband. 


of his neck and the slack of his pants and pitch him out 
of the window?” thought John Palmer to himself. 
“ Why ? Because, with all his impudence, he loves my 
Em., poor fellow, almost as hard as I did her mother, 
and I am sorry for him. So I’ll be gentle with him.”) 

“You have no right,” broke forth the young man, 
once more, as he strode up and down the floor — “ you 
have no right — no one has any right to separate two 
young people who love each other as I and Emolyn do! 
No right to ruin both our lives for the sake of gratify- 
ing your own particular whims of pride or prudence ! 
I told my uncle and my mother so yesterday, and I tell 
you so to-day.” 

“Whe-ew!” exclaimed John. “So you mean to 
marry my daughter whether I will or not ?” 

“ I will marry my Emolyn in defiance of all insane 
opposition !” 

“Very well. We’ll see. Please sit down here. I 
am going to send for Emolyn,” said John Palmer. 

Ronald Bruce threw himself into the chair and 
waited. 

John Palmer went to the window, tapped upon it and 
called one of the boys who was chopping wood in the 
yard, and who immediately approached. 

“Ned, tell your sister Em. to come in here. I want 
to speak to her,” said the father. 

The boy ran off to do his errand. 

John Palmer unlocked the door and set it open. 

In a few moments Em. entered the room. 

She looked very much flushed and embarrassed, and 
her color came and went as she glanced from her lover 
to her father. She seemed to feel that her fate was 
being weighed in the balance of the moment, and that 
a second might decide it for weal or woe. 

“ Good-morning, father. Good-morning, Mr. Bruce,” 


Proposals . 


179 


she faltered, in low tones, compelling herself to this act 
of politeness, although her very heart seemed fainting 
within her for fear. 

Ronald Bruce bowed low to her salutation, while 
John Palmer held out his hand and said : 

“Come here, my girl, I have something to say to 
you.” 

Em. went to him. 

He encircled her with one arm and drew her close to 
his side while he said : 

“ Em., my child, this good young gentleman here has 
done us the honor to ask me for you as his wife — as 
most likely you know.” 

Em. gave a quick, short nod, and caught her breath. 

“ You did know, of course. Well, my daughter, there 
is no young man in the world that I like better than 
him — just as there is no young woman in the world that 
I love better than you. So, having the lasting happi- 
ness of both in view, I must decline this marriage for 
you, my Em.” 

“ Oh, father /” she breathed almost under her breath. 

“ His friends would never consent to receive my child 
as a relative, Em. I would never consent for you to 
enter any family who would not be as proud to receive 
you as I should be to give you. Besides this, unequal 
marriages never end well. Where a gentleman marries 
a poor girl, however muqh he may seem to have loved 
her at first, he grows tired of her, perhaps ashamed 
of her, and ceases to love her, maybe begins to hate 
her — ” 

“ Oh, father ! father !” moaned the girl, in a low tone 
of anguish. 

“ Mr. Palmer, you must not say these things to your 
daughter ! They are cruel, unmanly, and what is more, 


i8o 


Em! s Husband. 


untrue, as far as I am concerned,” hotly interposed 
Ronald Bruce. 

“ They are hard and bitter words, I know, young- 
people,” said John Palmer, keeping his temper. “ But 
bitters are tonics to cure weakness. Now, my Em , 
to yvu I speak. You are my child. This young gentle- 
man here declares that he will marry you. in defiance of 
his relations and yours, and ' all the world and the rest 
of mankind,’ as the late General Taylor used to say. 
The question, then, is this, my child : whether you will 
marry him without my consent and against my wishes ? 
Answer, Em.!” 

“ Emolyn, pause ! Do not commit yourself hastily 
by a promise that will drive me mad and make yourself 
miserable !” impetuously exclaimed the lover, “ Take 
time to consider, Emolyn ! Tell your father that you 
must have time !” he earnestly pleaded. 

Em. raised her head. Her face was pale, and her eyes 
were full of tears ; but she answered, firmly : 

“ Ronald, you know my heart ; I must not take time 
to consider whether I shall obey my dear father or not. 
I must not marry without his consent — I will not, dear 
father ! Ronald, listen and be sure of this — if it should 
ever be right that we should marry, my dear father will 
consent ; for he has nothing except our welfare in view. 
But, do not mistake me, be sure of this also, that I will 
never marry without his consent,” Em. added, and cov- 
ered her face with her hands to conceal the tears that 
were ready to stream from her eyes. 

“ There, young gentleman, you have your answer, 
from her, as well as from me. She will not marry with- 
out my consent. If it should ever happen to be proper 
for you to marry I will give my consent. As that is not 
at all likely to occur, why you had better not hope for 
it. And let me repeat, in this I have nothing but your 


The Resme. 


1 8 1 


happiness and hers at heart,” said John, in earnest kind- 
liness. 

Ronald Bruce stamped viciously, exclaiming : 

“ If there is anything in the world I detest, it is to 
suffer a grievous wrong and to be told that it is intended 
as a benefit.” 

“ Yes, I ’know,” said John. “Children always rebel 
ag’in the physic that is to cure ’em, or the whipping that 
is to reform ’em, although we always tell ’em it’s for 
their good. But ‘ sich is life.’ ” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE RESCUE. 

She took the fruits of my advice ; — 

And he, repulsed —a short tale to make — 

Fell into a sadness, thence into a fast, 

Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness. 

Shakespeare. 

“ Mammy says, how if you don’t come in to breakfast, 
it will all be sp’ilt,” were the prosaic words that cut 
short this trying interview, as little Molly put her 
smoothly-brushed black head into the door. 

“ Run and tell mammy we will be there immediately,” 
said John. 

The little lass sped away on her errand. 

“ Come, sir ! Come !” exclaimed John, cheerfully. 
“ Our boys were out among the partridges on Saturday 
afternoon, and bagged a rare lot of fat ones. The 
mother has dressed them for breakfast, and we mustn’t 
let them spoil by waiting ! Come, Em.! little woman, 
cheer up ! Nobody’s dead and nobody’s dying !” 


182 


Em's Husband. 


Now, it was the first impulse of Ronald Bruce to de- 
cline John Palmer’s further entertainment, and to hurry 
away without waiting for breakfast, but a glance from 
Em.’s imploring eyes restrained him, and he sulkily fol- 
lowed John and herself to the dining-room, where Susan 
with the brightest smiles, bade him good-morning. 

As they seated themselves at the table, Em. purposely 
took a chair with her back to the window, so that her 
troubled face might be thrown into shadow, and escape 
the notice of her mother. 

But if Susan Palmer failed to observe the tearful 
eyes of her daughter, she did not neglect to watch her 
guest, and to see how he slighted her delicious broiled 
partridges and cream rolls. 

“ I am afraid you are not as hearty as usual this morn- 
ing, Mr. Bruce ! ” she said at length. 

“ Oh, quite so, thanks ! But this is rather earlier than 
I am accustomed to take breakfast, ” said the young 
man, ingeniously. 

Susan had. the good sense to seem satisfied with the 
explanation ; but she remembered all the while that 
the early breakfast-hour had not prevented Mr. Bruce 
from making a valiant onslaught upon the edibles on 
the occasion of his last visit. 

As soon as breakfast was over Ronald prepared to 
take leave of the family. 

His horse was brought around to the door by ’Sias. 

“ Now, I hope you will come to see us just as often 
as you can conveniently Mr. Bruce ] Why, a visit 
from you, with your sea-stories, is as good as a voyage 
round the world to John and the boys, penned up as 
they are in this here wally with a wall of mountains 
round them ! Come often, sir ! And, la ! why, if break- 
fast at seven o’clock in the morning is too airly for you, 
we might have it at eight or nine, or any time, ” said 


The Res cite. 


183 


Susan Palmer, cordially, as Ronald Bruce took leave of 
her. 

“Thanks, very much ; I shall remember your kind- 
ness, ” returned the young man, without committing 
himself by a promise. 

He took a light and cheerful leave of the younger 
members of the family, and then went to the window 
where Em. stood looking out. 

She turned as he joined her. 

He took her hand and said: 

“ I do not know when I shall be permitted to see you 
again, my dear and only love ; but be sure of this — I 
will never give you up Em.! Never, as I hope for 
heaven ! God bless you, my darling ! ” 

And so saying, he pressed her hand and turned away. 

John Palmer went out with him. 

“ I am sorry, sir, that I cannot join in my wife’s invita- 
tion to you. But under the circumstances I think you and 
Em. had better not see each other again. I am grieved 
to the soul, I am about all this. And — see here ! I cannot 
let you go in this way ! I’ll tell you what, now, listen ! 
If you will agree not to see, or to speak to, or write to 
Em., or to hold any sort of communication with her, 
for the space of one year from to-day, and if at the end 
of that time you and Em. retain you partiality for one 
another, and you come to me with the written consent 
of your lady mother and your gentleman uncle, why 
then I will take back all my objections to the match ! 
There, now ! I can say no more than that. What do 
jwsay?” demanded John, in a frank, hearty, almost 
joj'ous manner. 

The countenance of the young man was not, however, 
gratefully responsive. 

“ I ask no concessions of you, Mr. Palmer, because I 
can make no promises. I must have Em. for my wife, if I 


184 


Em! s Husband. 


can, and as soon as I can. Her happiness, as well as my 
own, depends upon it !” he answered, as he placed his 
foot in the stirrup and threw himself into the saddle. 

“ Very well ! Then my hope is in Em. She is a 
dutiful daughter, and she will obey me,” concluded 
John Palmer, as he waved his departing guest adieu, 
and returned into the house. 

He looked around for Em. ; but the girl was nowhere 
to be seen. He inquired for her and was told that she 
had gone upstairs to make the beds. 

“ And I would just like to know,” said his wife, who 
had been his informant, “what they have been doing to 
Em. up there at the commodore’s to make her look so 
ill. I take my oath she does not look like the same 
child. I just think I’ll march myself up to the grand 
house, and ask them what is the meaning of it all !” 

“Come here, my good woman. I’ll tell you all 
about it, and then we must drop the subject forever and 
a day, and try to employ and amuse Em., and make her 
forget it,” said John, as he beckoned Susan to follow 
him into the parlor, where they would be more secure 
from interruption. 

There John shut the door, put his wife into the big 
arm-chair, and taking another for himself, sat down 
before her, and told her the whole story of Ronald 
Bruce and Emolyn Palmer’s love. 

Susan listened in breathless astonishment. 

“ To think of such a thing ! It never once entered 
my head !” she exclaimed. “ And Em. nothing but a 
child, hardly out of her short frocks and pantalettes ? 
And he, you might say, almost a middle-aged man by 
comparison ! And quite belonging to another world ! 
But, oh, my poor girl !” 

“ Well, my dear, I considered the best thing to do in 
such a case was to put my foot right down on it, and 


The Rescue. 


185 


that I did. Though, if I had thought as he’d a made 
her happy in the long run, I’d a given my consent ; but 
I knew he’d soon repent sich an unequal marriage, and 
that would break my girl’s heart, and so down I put my 
foot upon the whole thing ! And now, Susan, we must 
never allude to what’s past, but try to comfort and 
cheer the child up.” 

Mrs. Palmer agreed to that, and then they left the 
parlor and set about their several duties. 

As for Em., she went hard to work — her panacea for 
all mental troubles. They all heard her singing as she 
shook up beds and swept floors. 

But when all the work was done, then came the 
reaction of artificial excitement — the life weariness, the 
heavy-heartedness, that she could not shake off. 

So many industrious hands about that house left so lit- 
tle to do ! 

Her hands could now find nothing. 

She thought she would walk down to the pier and 
take the little boat and make a visit to the island. She 
had not been to Edengarden for some weeks past ; and 
this golden October day tempted her to the excursion. 

She went to find Susan, and said : 

“ Mother, I am going out for an hour or two, if you 
would not mind. 

“ No, of course not, child. But where are you going, 
Em.?” 

“ To Edengarden, mother. I have not been there for 
so long a time.” 

“ Very well, Em.; but, oh, my dear ! don’t attempt to 
row the boat yourself ! I know you can do it ; but still 
for this once, take old ’Sias with you ! Will you.” 

“ Yes, mother, if you wish me to do so ; but you know, 
dear, there is no danger. I can use an oar as well as I 
can a broom. And for the rest, you know what the 


86 


Em's Husband. 


country people about here say — that it requires a great 
deal of perseverance and presence of mind to drown 
one’s self in the ‘ Placide.’ ” 

“ Oh, I know, Em.! But still, for this once, take old 
’Sias with you.” 

“ I will do so, mother,” replied the girl, as she turned 
away. 

Em. quickly wrapped herself in her black and white 
checkered shawl, and put on her gray felt hat, and left 
the house. 

She walked briskly down the leaf-strewn road that 
led through the thicket to the gate-house. 

Here she found old ’Sias sitting on the step before 
the closed front door, smoking a stumpy clay pipe, and 
basking in the golden sunshine of the autumn morning. 

“ Oh, Uncle ’Sias, I am so glad to see you at leisure. 
Will you row me to Edengarden this morning ?” she 
inquired, pausing before the old man. 

“ Miss Em.! Well I ’clare to my goodness! De 
sight ob you down here axing me to go wid you a row- 
ing is good for to cure blindness !” exclaimed old ’Sias, 
taking the pipe from his mouth and rising to his feet. 
“ Why, you hasn’t been .here — less see — not since las’ 
Augus’, I do believe. Yes, honey, to be sure, I’ll take 
you a rowing, and glad to do it, too,” he continued, as 
he emptied his pipe and put it into his pocket, and 
walked on beside Em. out of the gate and through the 
forest road leading to the river. 

“ You are quite at leisure to go with me, Uncle ’Sias, 
I hope ?” said the girl, considerately. 

“ Oh, la ! yes, honey ! I hadn’t nuffin ’t all to do, and, 
what ’s more, I hadn’t no place to go to. You see dat 
dere shet up door, didn’t you honey ?” 

“ Yes of course,” said Em., wondering to what that 
led. 


The Rescue . 


87 


“Well, chile, dat shet-up door was bolted on the 
inside,” said ’Sias mysteriously. 

“ Why, how was that ?” inquired Em. 

“ Sereny been performing, honey ! Sereny been per- 
forming, chile ! Thanks be to goodness, Miss Em., dere 
ain’t much ha’r left on my head for her to twist her 
fingers in now ! Lord, if Miss Abishag performed on 
King David like Sereny do on me, no wonder he wrote 
so many solium sams ! She’s been performing, honey, 
and arter she’d done performing she kicked me out and 
clapped the door to and bolted it ! Dere ! dat’s what 
Sereny did, and I feel as if I could write a solium sam 
myself !” 

“ It is really too bad !” cried Em. 

“ Now ain’t it, dough, honey ? And de most aggra- 
vokingest part of it is to think as I’m her lawful lord and 
marster, as she swore before de holy altar to lub, honor 
and obey ! But law ! what’s de use o’ talking ? De 
wimmen don’t ’member dem wows no longer’n dey get 
out’n de church ! Leastways, I know Sereny didn’t ! 
Purty way she lub me to pull all de ha’r out’n my head ! 
Purty way she honor me to kick me out’n de house and 
slam de door and bolt it on me. And I her lord and 
marster ! But you see, chile, dough I is her s’preme 
ruler, she’s de strongest ob de two, and dat’s de way she 
gets de better ob me ! Now, I tell you what, Miss Em., 
if it should please de Lord to take Sereny, I think as I 
should be ’signed to His holy will, and I never would 
get another young wife to keep me warm in my ole age, 
’cording to King David, nor no other king ! So dere 
now ! ’Cause de way dey hab o’ keepin’ you warm is 
by pummeling and scalpin’ of you, and I don’t like it ! 
So no young cullered gal needn’t be coming arter me, 
if ebber I’m a widderer ag’n ! ’Deed and ’deed needn’t 
dey !” 


1 88 


Em.'s Husband. 


They had by this time reached the water’s edge, where 
the little boat lay moored and rocking. 

“ Shall I put up de sail, Miss Em.? But dere ain’t a 
breaf ob breeze, neider !” said ’Sias, as he began to un- 
moor. 

“Oh, no ! We will row. You take the oars, 1 the 
tiller, and we shall skim the water like a bird,” said Em. 

“ So we will, Miss Em., and won’t that be sociable ?” 
cried old ’Sias, gleefully, as he threw the chain ashore 
and took up the oars, and placed them in their rests. 

Em. nodded, entered the boat, seated herself, took the 
tiller and steered for the island. 

Old ’Sias laid himself sturdily to the oars, and the lit- 
tle boat sped on its way down the river. 

“ Oh, how glorious this is in autumn !” exclaimed the 
girl, as forgetting all her troubles in the moment, she 
gazed with enthusiastic delight on the magnificent scene 
before her. 

The mighty river, rolling on in calm strength to the 
sea ; the lofty precipices on the left, with their gray 
rocks dappled with clumps of evergreen trees and par- 
terres of variegated moss, and brightened by springs 
and fountains of sparkling water dancing down their 
sides, and losing themselves in the river ; the undulat- 
ing, wooded hills on the right, now changinginto all the 
most brilliant colors of the autumn foliage — crimson, 
orange, purple, golden, scarlet — all blended and con- 
trasted on the shore, and reflected in the shining river ; 
the distant island, midway between the banks, resting 
on the bosom of the river, and looking in the autumn 
dress of its groves like an immense bouquet of gorgeous 
exotics. 

Em. sat and absorbed the beauty and glory of the 
scene into her soul, and never spoke again until they 
had reached the landing at Edengarden, 


The Rescue. 


89 


“ Now, Miss Em., my honey, if you don’t mind walk- 
ing up to de house by yourself, I think I’ll jes’ set here in 
de boat and smoke my pipe, and think o’ King David 
and Abishag till you come back,” said old ’Sias, as 
he steadied the boat to let his passenger step out. 

“ Very well, Uncle ’Sias, I will not keep you long.” 

“ Never mind ’bout de ‘ long,’ honey. I could stay 
here all day, willin’ ! It’s so quiet like here, and clean 
out’n de reach o’ Sereny,” replied the old man, as 
he settled himself in his seat and took out his pipe and 
began to fill it. 

Em. walked on through the belt of silver maples that 
had now turned in their autumn tints so that they 
formed a golden girdle around the shores of the beauti- 
ful island. 

Passing through and out of them, she walked up the 
ornate terraces where the clumps of trees in their fall 
dress of crimson, orange, and purple, looked like gigan- 
tic posies, and the parterres of flowers were rich in late 
roses, dahlias, chrysanthemums, and other autumn 
blooms. 

Up, past arbors, statues, and fountains, to the white, 
colonnaded piazza that surrounded the white palace. 

“ This might be the ‘ Island of Calm Delights,’ and 
the fairy palace of the Princess Blandina, for its beauty 
and its solitude,” said Em. to herself, as she went up 
the marble steps that led to the main entrance. 

She had intended to walk around the piazza to the 
rear of the house to get the key from the solitary 
housekeeper ; but as soon as she stepped upon the 
porch she saw that the front door was open. 

It was not an unusual circumstance — Em. had twice, 
on former visits, found the door open, when other 
sight-seers happened to be present. 

Therefore, without the least surprise or hesitation, 


Em.'s Husband. 


190 


she entered the beautiful hall and passed directly 
to the saloon, where that wondrous portrait of the 
“ White Spirit ” hung, which had, for her, so powerful 
a fascination. 

To her slight surprise, now, she saw no one present. 
The room was vacant. She went and opened one 
of the windows to throw a better light upon the lovely 
portrait, and then she turned and stood before it. 

How perfectly proportioned was the slender, elegant 
form ! How stately and graceful the attitude ! How 
soft and flowing the drapery ! How fair and delicate, 
how refined and spirituelle the lovely face, seen through 
the misty tissue of the falling vail, which seemed so 
real that Em. felt tempted to lift her hand and draw it 
aside that she might get a clearer view of the beautiful 
vision. 

As she gazed, a new light broke upon her. 

“ Why, this is a bridal dress !” she said to herself, 
j “ Strange it never struck me so before, but I suppose it 
was because I had heard the lady always appeared 
vailed. But here she must have been painted in her 
bridal dress, for that is certainly a bridal vail.” 

“ Yes, she was painted in her bridal dress,” murmured 
a voice, soft, sweet and low as the notes of an eolian 
harp. 

Em. started and turned around, to be transfixed by a 
pair of soft, deep, dark blue eyes, whose gaze held hers 
spell-bound. 

The “ White Spirit” stood before her. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE LADY OF EDENGARDEN. 

And scenes long past of joy and pain 
Come wildering through her wondering brain. 

Scott. 

Yes ! There, holding the girl’s eyes spellbound by 
her mesmeric gaze, stood the Wonder of the Wilderness, 
the mysterious being known as the “ White Spirit,” yet 
not in the traditional white robe and vail. 

No ! The lady of Edengarden was attired as any 
other conventional gentlewoman of the period with 
artistic tastes might have been. 

She wore a long, flowing, soft gray silk dress, with 
fine white lace about the throat and wrists, and with a 
knot of light blue ribbon mixed with lace on her bosom, 
and another of the same materials among the braids of 
her sunny, golden brown hair. 

But the face, with its delicate, patrician features, its 
fair transparent complexion, and its soft, dreamy, dark- 
blue eyes, was the very same. 

“ I — I beg your pardon, madam,” stammered Em., 
with an effort to recover herself. 

“ My child ! — Who are you?" interrupted the lady, tak- 
ing her hand and turning her around to face the full 
light of the window. 

[19C 


192 


Em's Husband. 


“ I am the daughter of John Palmer, the overseer at 
the Wilderness Manor, madam, Emolyn Palmer, and I 
thought — ” 

“ Em — olyn — Palm — er,” slowly repeated the lady, 
again interrupting the girl, and gazing steadily on her 
face. 

To escape this searching gaze into her soul, Em. first 
lowered her eyes and then raised them. 

Between the two front windows near which they 
stood, hung a long pier glass. Em. caught a full view 
of the lady and herself as they stood together, reflected 
in the mirror, and started at the marvelous likeness re- 
vealed — in all except dress the two seemed almost dup- 
licates. In the two faces there was scarcely even the 
perceptible difference that age should have made. 

“ Emolyn Palmer !” slowly repeated the lady. “Yes, 
yes, to be sure, I know ! Emolyn Palmer. Come here, 
my dear, and sit down.” 

And the lady led Em. to a tete-a-tete sofa, placed her 
in one corner, and took the other herself. 

“ I wish to beg your pardon, madam. I am very 
sorry — I did not know you were here — or I should not 
have presumed to intrude,” faltered Em., in painful 
embarrassment. 

The lady did not answer, only continued to look at 
her thoughtfully, kindly. 

“ I — I had understood that you were so good as to let 
the n-eighbors come in and look at your beautiful 
pictures and statues when you were away from home, 
and so I used to come very often last summer, though 
I was always in a dread for fear I should happen to 
come while you were here.” 

The lady smiled on the young speaker, but made no 
answer. 

“ And now I have done what I had feared to do, and 


The Lady of Edengarden. 


193 


intruded on your privacy, madam. I am sorry, and I 
hope you will forgive me,” continued Em., half ashamed 
of having to say so much before receiving an answer, 
yet reassured by the lady’s sweet, silent smile. 

“ You have done nothing that requires excuse, my 
child. You could have had no reason to suspect that I 
was present. I have never been here in the autumn 
before. I always came the first of May and went the 
last of September. Only this summer I went to Canada 
instead, and then came here on the first of October to 
spend the autumn. So you see you are blameless. 
Besides, Edengarden, with its house and grounds, is 
open to the neighbors at all seasons. Even when I am 
here, only my private suit of rooms is reserved. They 
are at the top of the building ; so you might have 
roamed all over the house, if you had wished to do so, 
without the fear of intrusion. And now let us talk of 
yourself, little one. Your name is Emolyn Palmer,” 
said the lady, taking the girl’s slender, white hand in 
her own. 

“Yes, madam ; but everybody calls me Em.,” shyly 
answered the girl. 

“ Do not be afraid of me, my child ! This is not the 
first time we have met.” 

Em. started and gazed at the speaker in surprise. 

“ No, my child, not the first time we have met. I 
held you in my arms and blessed you when you were a 
babe of only a few weeks old,” continued the Lady of 
Edengarden. 

Em.’s startled gaze of surprise softened as she lowered 
her eyes and reflected that this might easily have been 
the case, as her mother had many customers among fine 
ladies, whose little girls used to notice her babies. 

“ Do you know for whom you were named, Emolyn ?” 
gently inquired the lady. 


i 9 4 


Em's Husband. 


“ Oh, yes, madam. I was named for Miss Emolyn 
Wyndeworth, a saint, an angel ; but she has been in 
heaven these many years.” 

“ How do you know that ?” 

“ My mother has told me so all my life.” 

“ Your mother cherishes her memory, then ?” 

“ Oh, yes, yes, and speaks -of her as pious Catholics 
speak of their patron saints.” 

“ Tell me of your mother, my child. I used to know 
her very long ago, when I lived in the world. Does 
she enjoy good health, and is she much more prosper- 
ous, and much happier now at the Wilderness manor- 
house than she used to be in Laundry Lane ?” 

“ To think you should know anything about Laundry 
Lane, dear lady ! Why, even to me it seems like a 
place in a past existence, that I had died in and risen 
out of,” murmured Em. 

“ And yet it is scarcely six months since you left it, 
while it has been over sixteen years since I saw it. 
But about your mother, Emolyn.” 

“ Oh, mother, too, is just as if she had died in Laun- 
dry Lane and risen to Paradise ! She is just as healthy 
and hearty and happy as any human being can be. 
And she looks younger now than I ever saw her look. 
And so does father. Did you ever know father, 
madam ?” cheerfully inquired Em., who was growing 
more and more at ease in the presence of the lady. 

“Yes, I knew your father, too, my child,” breathed 
the latter, in a low tone. 

“ Well, father looks younger too. He is not sallow 
now, and he doesn’t stoop. He’s ruddy as a red apple, 
and straight as an arrow. And they are all as well and 
as happy as they can be at the Wilderness Manor. They 
have everything that heart can wish. Without being 
wealthy, they have all the enjoyments of wealth. And 


1 he Lady of Edengarden . 


*95 


it is like Paradise after the purgatory of Laundry 
Lane.” 

“ I thank the Lord that one family, at least, is made 
happy,” breathed the lady, in low and earnest tones. 

“ And we owe all that happiness to you, dear madam ; 
for although they have never seen you, yet of course 
we know that you are our Lady of the Manor, Mrs. 
Lindsay,” said Em. 

“ 4 Lindsay ?’ 4 Mrs. Lindsay !’ ” repeated the lady, in 

a tone of surprise. 

44 Yes, Lindsay — is not that your name ?” 

“ No ; but it does not matter. Tell me more of your 
mother. Has she any other children, younger than 
yourself, I mean ?” 

“ Oh yes, ma'am, as many younger as there are 
older. The four elder ones are all married and settled 
in the city where we came from, and we hear from 
them zvbout once a month. They are all doing well. 
And the four younger ones are — in Paradise with us.” 
And now, dear lady, may I ask you a question ?” 

44 Yes, certainly. Have I not asked you many ?” 

44 Well, then, was it because you knew my dear father 
and mother that you caused your agent to engage them 
to take charge of the old manor !” 

The lady hesitated for a moment, and then replied : 

44 Yes, though at the time I did not care to be known 
in the transaction, and so acted only through my agent, 
Carmichael, and my friend Mrs. Willet.” 

44 Oh ! you knew Mrs. Willet, too ! How many people 
and places you knew that we knew !” exclaimed Em., in 
glad surprise, losing all the shyness she had first felt in 
the presence of the strange lady. 

44 Yes, a good many. And in this very transaction I 
found a coadjutor in a friend of yours, whom, however, 
I did not know,” 


196 


E m. 's Husba nil. 


“ A friend of ours ?” said Em. thoughtfully. 

“ Yes ; Lieutenant Ronald— Bruce,” said the lady, 
hesitating, and then pronouncing the last word in a low 
tone and with a falling inflection. 

“ Oh !” breathed Em. 

“ It appears that he had some time before appealed 
to the Willets to throw anything they could find to suit 
him in the way of John Palmer and his family. So, 
when the proposal came from my agent, John Palmer 
and his wife would have got the first offer upon Mr. 
Bruce’s standing recommendation, even if his name had 
not been mentioned in my private instructions.” 

“ Then it is to you that we owe all our happiness ! 
Oh ! how grateful we should be, and are, madam, for 
we know that we enjoy many privileges not usually 
accorded to overseers and their families,” said Em., 
raising the lady’s hand to her lips. 

“ It was my happiness to make you happy,”* replied 
the latter in a low tone. 

“ Oh ! how glad my mother will be to know that it is 
to a former friend she owes her present prosperity. 
But, dear lady, you say your name is not that which the 
country people have given you. Will you tell me what 
it is, so that I may rejoice my mother’s heart with the 
knowledge, that we may know whom to name when we 
invoke blessings on our benefactress ?” 

“ Perhaps, my child. My name has never transpired 
in this neighborhood. None know it but the people of 
the legal profession who are my agents. The country 
folks here have given me more than one name — Lynn, 
Lindsay, and so forth — all being somewhat akin to my 
own name, to which they may have got some slight clew. 
But never mind about my name for the present ; I wish* 
to speak of yours. Have you any middle name ?” 


The Lady of Edengarden. 


197 


“ Oh, yes, madam. I am Emolyn Wyndeworth Pal- 
mer. That is a very fine name for a poor girl ; but 
mother wished to give me the whole of her angel's name, 
she said, and so she had me baptized Emolyn Wynde- 
worth.” 

“ And you say that she for whom you were named died 
many years ago ?” 

“ Yes, madam, so many years ago that it was before my 
recollection. Oh, I often wish that I could have seen 
her once, only once, to have her image in my mind.” 

“ How came she to die so young, my child ? ” inquired 
the lady, in a low tone. 

“ I do not know, madam ; but mother says she was a 
martyr ; that she had suffered a grievous wrong that 
broke her heart ; but who had wronged her, or how she 
was wronged, mother never would tell — only she said 
there were some wrongs too great and some sorrows to 
deep to be spoken of in this world.” 

“ Yes, yes, yes, yes, ” murmured the Lady of Eden- 
garden, in a low voice. 

And then silence fell upon the two, and lasted some 
minutes. 

Finally, Em. rose to take leave. 

“You are going ? ” said the lady. 

“ Yes, madam. I have only time to get home before 
dark. If I should be out later my mother would fear 
something ill would happen to me. I am very grateful, 
dear lady, for your kindness to me to-day, as vrell as 
for your great goodness to our whole family. I wish 
you good -evening,” said Em., lifting the lady’s hand 
to her lips, and then turning to depart. 

“Stop,” said the Lady of Edengarden. 

Em. obeyed, and stood waiting. 

“ You wish to tell your mother the name of her un- 
known friend ? ” 


198 


Em's Husband. 


“ Oh, yes, madam — if you please,” eagerly exclaimed 
Em. 

| “ Tell her, then, that I am one whom she used to 

know and love as Emolyn Wyndeworth.” 

Em. uttered a half -suppressed cry, reeled, and might 
have fallen, but that the lady sprang and caught her, 
supported her to the sofa, and sat her down in the cor- 
ner, where she leaned back, deathly pale and faint. 

“ My child, I am very sorry for this ; but I could not 
have supposed that my announcement would have start- 
led you so much,” said the lady, as she applied a small 
vinaigrette to the nose of the girl. 

“ Oh, is it possible — can it be possible ?” murmured 
Em. to herself. Then, with an effort, she sat up and 
said : “ Forgive me, madam ; but it is indeed as if one 
had returned from heaven to earth. It is not a dream ? 
You are — ” 

“ I am Emolyn Wyndeworth, my dear, and more 
convinced than ever of the fond and faithful remem- 
brance in which I have been held since the mere 
announcement of my name and presence has produced 
such an effect upon you, who had no personal recollec- 
tion of me,” said the lady, in a soothing tone, as she 
passed her hand caressingly over the girl’s bright 
ringlets. 

“ Ah, how happy I shall be when — when I can real- 
ize all this ; but now — now I am afraid of waking ! 
Oh, I am, indeed, madam !” added Em., with a nervous 
little laugh. 

The lady dropped her hand and left the room for a 
few moments, and then returned, bringing a glass 
of wine which she made Em. drink. 

“ You are almost hysterical over this surprise, my 
dear,” she said, as she placed the empty glass on 
the table. 


99 


7 he Lady of Edengardcu . 


“ I was never so before. I should not have been so 
under any other surprise — but — to see one whom I had 
always been taught to reverence as a patron saint, or a 
guardian angel, standing bodily before me — oh ! you 
know, madam, it seemed as if — almost as if a seraph had 
descended from heaven ! Oh, how delighted, how past 
all delight my dear mother will be ! And father, too ! 
And Mrs. Whitlock ! And Aunt Monica ! Poor old 
Aunt Monica ! Oh, I know, you used to know her ! 
And, oh ! how dearly she loved you ! How fondly she 
talks of you to this day ! Oh ! what a jubilee there’ll 
be when I go home with my news — if I don’t wake up 
first and find it all a wild dream !” exclaimed Em., 
much revived by the wine she had tasted. 

“ My impetuous child, how you run on ! Uttering 
names that seemed to have been once as familiar 
as ‘ household words ’ to me, in that long past existence 
out of which I have died and risen ! ‘ Whitlock !’ 

‘ Monica !’ One was my dear old guardian’s house- 
keeper, and the other his nurse in his last fatal illness ! 
But what can you know of them ?” 

“ Why, they live with us — Mrs. Whitlock ever since I 
can remember, and old Aunt Monica ever since we 
moved out here. Father takes care of them both. 
And they both love you and mourn you, dear lady ! 
And, oh! how enraptured they will be, past all expres- 
sion, when they find out that — that — you still live 
in this world and they may look on your face again !” 

* “ Is it possible they are so near me ? Old Aunt 

Monica, I shall be happy to see again. But for Mrs. 
Whitlock, I scarcely remember her, except as my 
guardian’s attendant. It seems strange that she 
should remember me at all. She saw so little of me.” 

“ Oh, dear lady, you were so good, believe me, many, 


200 


Em! s Husband. 


many poor people remember you, whom you most 
likely have forgotten.” 

“ Now may Heaven forbid !” breathed the Lady of 
Edengarden, in a low, earnest tone. Then, speaking 
to Em., she said : “ My child, you must not flatter any 

one, and least of all me" 

“ But, dearest madam, I do not know how to flatter ! 
I speak only the very truth,” said Em., with a certain 
childish dignity. 

“ Truth sometimes flatters. Do not praise me, little 
girl. I do not deserve it, and — I cannot bear it. I wish 
to be forgiven , not praised. To be forgotten , not remem- 
bered — except by the very few who love me. I have 
talked to you, young namesake, longer than I have 
talked with any one these fifteen years past. My heart 
seems strangely and tenderly drawn towards you, little 
girl. Perhaps it is because you are the child of one 
who was my most steadfast friend in a time of terrible 
trial. Perhaps, also, it is because you were named for 
me, and I held you in my arms and blessed you, when 
I myself had ‘ most need of blessing.’ But all that 
would hardly explain the yearning of my soul towards 
you, my child ! my child !” said the lady, as she took 
the hand of the young girl and drew her to her bosom. 

“ Oh ! May I tell you something ? May I tell you 
something ?” muttered Em., in tones half smothered 
with emotion, as she leaned on the bosom of the lady, 
held there in a close embrace. 

“ Tell me anything you please, my child.” 



CHAPTER XIX. 

THE GOOD FAIRY. 

Better to hope, though the clouds hang low. 

And to keep the eyes still lifted, 

For the sweet blue sky will soon peep through. 

When the ominous clouds are drifted. 

There never was a night without a day. 

Nor an evening without a morning ; 

And the darkest hour, the proverbs say, 

Is just before the dawning. 

Baldwin’s Monthly. 

“ Well, the first time I ever saw your portrait — that 
one hanging there in the bridal dress and vail — I loved 
it. Oh ! I loved it so I could have sat all day and 
gazed upon it ! And every time I have come back to 
the island it was not to see any of the beautiful objects, 
it was to spend all the time I had to spare in sitting 
before your portrait and gazing on it. And now I 
have you!" concluded the girl, with a convulsive clasp 
of the lady’s form. 

“ Yes, now you have me,” replied the latter, once 
more re-seating Em. on the sofa, and sitting down 
beside her. “ Now you have me. Therefore I feel the 
less hesitation about disabusing your mind about that 
picture. It is not my portrait, though very like me. It 
is my mother’s portrait, taken in her bridal costume.” 

[201I 


202 


Em's Husband. 


“ What ! that picture the image of you, dear 
madam, and yet not you ! But it is beautiful ! Beau- 
tiful ! for all that,” exclaimed Em., gazing from the 
face of the lady to that of the picture. 

“My mother was a most beautiful woman,” mur- 
mured the lady. 

“ And the portrait which hangs in the long drawing- 
room of the old Wilderness manor-house — the portrait 
of a lady in the costume of the time of Queen Elizabeth 
— whose face so much resembles yours and your 
mother’s?” said Em., interrogatively. 

“ Oh, the portrait of a remote ancestress, so remote 
that even tradition has little to say about her, except 
that Sir Walter Raleigh wrote sonnets in praise of her 
beauty.” 

“ That beauty has been faithfully handed down,” 
said Em. 

“The resemblance has, at any rate. But, my child, 
who told you that the picture there was my portrait ?” 

“ Oh ! Several persons, I think ; but the first person 
who said so was old ’Sias, the gate-porter at the Wil- 
derness Manor.” 

“ Ah ! I know — a little shriveled old man who refers 
everything back to the time when he was a boy, several 
hundred years ago, ‘ more or less ?’ ” 

“ Yes,” laughed Em., “ the very same.” 

“ What other marvels did he tell you about me ? I 
would like to know. I have never seen the old creat- 
ure, nor any one else belonging to the old Wilderness 
estate, although I am their lady ; but I have heard 
about them through my agent, and I am aware that 
many strange reports are afloat respecting myself, 
merely because I appear here only a few months in the 
year, and then live a strictly secluded life. Come ! 


The Good Fairy . 


203 


What have you heard respecting your namesake, Emo- 
lyn ?” 

“ Oh, dear lady, many absurd rumors, that I now per- 
ceive must have been false. That you were a semi- 
supernatural being— a ‘White Spirit that your form 
was seldom visible, but when seen it was clothed from 
head to foot in long, white robes ; that your face 
was never seen by any one, for it was alw r ays hidden 
beneath a white vail that flowed over your whole 
figure.” 

“I could laugh, Emolyn, were not my laughingdays 
past. White, indeed, is my usual dress when here in 
summer. It is the most convenient and comfortable 
wearing apparel. Often, too, when walking about the 
grounds of my isolated island home, I have thrown over 
my head, instead of hat or bonnet, a white gauze scarf. 
From their boats on the river, or even when sight-see- 
ing on the island, or in the house, the marvel-mongers 
have seen me so, and so reported me. You know how 
a story grows by repetition where there is nothing to 
contradict it ? I was never seen in any way but this, 
for I never left my island home except to leave the 
country, and 1 never received any visitors. Behold the 
mystery of the White Spirit !” 

Em. sighed. It is not always and to all persons an 
unmixed pleasure to have a beautiful supernatural 
illusion dispelled. She would have liked to tell the 
lady her vision of the radiant woman, on the first and 
second night of her stay in the old Wilderness manor- 
house ; but she felt that the time had not come for 
such confidences ; and, furthermore, that the time had 
come half an hour ago for her to take leave of her new 
friend and start for home. 

“ And what more do they say of me, child ?” contin- 
ued the lady. 


204 


Em's Husband ’ 


“That you are the benefactress of the neighborhood 
and — White Spirit, or what not — you are an angel of 
benevolence.” 

“ It shames me to be over-praised, little girl. Tell 
me something they say which is not praise.” 

“ Well, some scout the White Spirit ; they say you 
are a childless widow, and that your name is Mrs. 
Lynn.” 

“ They do know quite a great deal about me, it seems. 
Well, my dear child, as to this last rumor, it is not for 
you to set them right by making any explanations. You 
could not even do it properly, because you do not 
know the circumstances. Let people continue to speak 
of me as widow, and to call me Mrs. Lynn ! They 
will not be so far wrong. Lynn is only an abbreviation 
of my rightful name — however they came by such a 
fractional part of the truth \ So, my dear, let me still 
be Mrs. Lynn to those who like to call me so. And 
mark me — to no one except you father, your mother, 
and old Monica, must you reveal the secret that the 
Lady of Edengarden is no other than the poor Emolyn 
Wynde worth. They will respect my wushes and keep 
my secret. The world thinks that I am dead, and it 
thinks truly, for I am dead to the world. I come out of 
my grave only for the sake of the few who love me.” 

“ You dream beautiful dreams in your grave, dear 
lady ! you who dreamed this Edengarden into exist- 
ence murmured Em. 

“ Do you love this beauty so much, fair child ? Then 
perhaps, you will come and share it with me. You are 
my little namesake. I shall beg you of your mother 
some of these days. She has so many daughters she 
might spare you to me !” 

“ Oh, she would ! she would ! My dear mother would 
give you anything in her possession that you might ask 


The Good Fairy . 


205 


of her ! And as for me — oh, how I should love to live 
with you !” exclaimed Em., with a burst of enthusiasm, 

“ What ! and leave your own mother ?” wistfully 
inquired the lady, as if to test the girl. 

“ Oh, my dear mother has father and so many other 
boys and girls, as you said, she can spare me ; and you 
b have no one to love you," answered Em., in a voice of 
ineffable tenderness and pathos. 

The lady stooped and kissed her for all reply. 

“Oh how hard it is to get away ! How I dislike to 
go. Yet I must. I have overstayed my time. Dear 
lady, good-evening,” said Em., as she arose and lifted 
the lady’s hand to her lips. 

“ Stay ! Who is going to take you home ?” 

“ 01*d ’Sias, the gate-keeper, madame.” 

“ He of the ‘ hundred and fifty years, more or less ?’ 
Where is he ?” 

“ Waiting below, madam, in his boat — The White 
Dow." 

“ Then come, my dear, and I will walk with you as 
far as the Silver Circle, for so we call the grove of 
maple trees that surrounds the shores of the island — 
though it is a golden circle now, for the leaves have put 
on their autumn livery,” said Mrs. Lynn, as she lifted 
a light shawl of shining, silky, white gauze from a table 
near, threw it over her head and shoulders, and led the 
way from the house. 

“ That is a beautiful girdle of maples around the 
island — silvery in the summer and golden in the 
autumn,” said Em., as she walked beside her conduct- 
ress down the marble steps that led from terrace to 
terrace from the summit to the plain. 

“ Some day you shall see that golden circle from the 
top of the observatory, for from there you can see the 
whole of it, and the effect is very fine,” answered the 


206 


Em's Husband. 


Lady of Edengarden, as they crossed the beautiful 
grounds and entered the circular grove. 

“ Now I shall wish to come so often, for now it will 
not be the likeness, but the living lady that I shall long 
to see,” said Em. 

“ You shall come as often as you like, and stay as long 
as you like. And tell your mother, dear, that I never 
leave the confines of the island, except when I leave the 
country. So, I cannot go to see her ; but I would be 
very happy to see her here — and your father and 
old Aunt Monica. They could come, as others come to 
see the island, and then they should see me.” 

“ And Ann Whitlock ? Poor Ann Whitlock ?” pleaded 
Em., as the lady paused to take leave. 

“ No, my child, I do not know much about her ; and 
my secret must not be confided to anyone but the three 
faithful friends in whom I can utterly confide. Not 
that there is anything at stake, either ; only, you see, 
poor Emolyn Wyndeworth was stoned to death many 
years ago, and she is dead and in her grave, and she 
will rise only for the two or three who love her.” 

“ Oh, but you dream such beautiful dreams in death. 
You have dreamed this once barren rock into a bloom- 
ing paradise, you have dreamed blessings all around 
you ! Oh ! how I wish I could dream such beautiful 
dreams as you do ! Especially that I could dream such 
blessings on all the poor !” 

“ Stay, my child ! I have just thought how I may 
employ you. You shall realize the dreams of blessings. 
My almoner is somewhat indolent with declining years, 
and not quite equal to her duties. You shall be a 
ministering angel to the needy, and find out all who are 
poor, sick, or suffering in mind or body, and bring them 
to my knowledge, and afterwards take them relief 


The Good Fairy . 


207 


according to their requirements. I am sure such occu- 
pation would suit you.” 

“ It would make me happier than I ever hoped to be 
in this world !” exclaimed Em., with enthusiastic 
delight. 

“ Come to me, then, to-morrow. And let the others 
that I have named come then, or at any other time. 
See ! the sun is on the verge of the horizon. You must 
hasten home. Oh ! my darling, I am so thankful you 
wandered over my grave and raised me from it. Good- 
night ! God bless you !” And the lady drew the 
maiden to her bosom, and kissed her and turned away. 

Em. watched the receding figure until it was lost in 
the grove, and then she hurried down to the shore, 
where she found the boat tied to its post and rocking 
on the water, and old ’Sias sitting in the stern fast 
asleep. 

She woke him up, and then said : 

“ I have kept you waiting too long, haven’t I, Uncle 
’Sias ? I have been gone more than three hours.” * 

“ Oh, no, honey, I has had a lubly quiet time here by 
myself ! And I had such a liebbenly dream ! I 
dreamed how de Lord had tuk Sereny — or de debbil 
had got her, I didn’t know which ; ennyhow she had 
’parted dis life, and I was libbin’ alone at de gate-house 
and smokin’ my pipe in peace ’dout de ’fear o’ being 
scalped or performed on enny more, and how you and* 
Marse Lieutenant Ronald Bruce, Esquire, was de lord 
and lady ob de manor libbin’ up at de hall, and you was 
a gwine out for a drive in a cherryrout and four, and 
you called me to open de gate, and I jumped to do it 
and woke up and found it was all a dream ! How dese 
dere ’cevin’ dreams do cheat us, Miss Em.,” said the old 
man, as he busied himself untying the boat. 

“ They do so, Uncle ’Sias ! But don’t let this 


208 


Em's Husband. 


dream cheat us into being out after dark. Make haste, 
please,” said Em., as she stepped into the boat and 
seated herself and took the tiller. 

The old man laid himself heartily to the oars, and 
the little boat shot from the shore and soon left 
the island far behind it. 

The sun had sunk behind the mountains that formed 
the west bank of the river, and cast their deep shadow 
far across the water ; but Em., for the first time, took 
little notice of the changes in the face of nature — she 
was absorbed in thoughts of the strange discovery she 
had made that day — the White Spirit, the Wonder of the 
Wilderness, the Lady of Edengarden, no other than 
Emolyn Wyndeworth, who had disappeared from the 
world so long ago, that she was supposed to have been 
many years in Heaven. 

How amazed, how incredulous, and at length how de- 
lighted her mother would be to hear the news ! 

But the strangest truth in the girl’s experience now 
was the sudden and perfect love and trust she already 
reposed in Emolyn Wyndeworth, the Lady of Eden- 
garden ! She felt that near that lady was rest — rest for 
her own troubled heart ; that on her bosom, as on 
some angel mother’s, she could lay her weary head and 
tell all the secret thoughts and affections, faults and 
temptations that troubled her. 

She even resolved as she sat silently meditating in 
in her seat, while she mechanically steered the boat, 
that some day she would tell this lady all about her ill- 
starred love affair with Ronald Bruce, for surely the 
sympathetic Emolyn Wyndeworth would be a disinter- 
ested umpire between the old and young. And who 
knew ? she was so wonderfully powerful, she might 
even find a way to make them — the poor young lovers 
— happy. 


The Good Fairy. 


209 


“ Here, Miss Em. ! Whar yer gwine ? Here we is 
op’sit' de landin’, honey ! Turn in !” were the words of 
old ’Sias that woke Em. from her deep reverie. 

She steered for the landing and, in a few minutes, 
reached it. 

Old ’Sias drew in his oars and secured the boat. 

Em. jumped out and stood waiting until the old man 
joined her. 

Then they walked through the woods together. It 
was growing dark, and there was no moon. 

When they reached the park wall and the gate-house, 
Em. took a silver half dollar from her pocket, and said : 

“ Here, Uncle ’Sias, give this to Sereny from me.” 

“ Yes, Miss Em. Thanky, honey ! I understands ! 
You give me this for Sereny ’cause yer think maybe it’ll 
save me from a performance. Which you may be sure 
it will, honey. But I ain’t agwine to leabe you here, 
Miss Em. I gwine to see yer safe t’rough dese woods 
and in sight ob de house ennyhow,” said old ’Sias, as he 
persistently trotted by the young girl’s side, guarding 
her with the fidelity of a Newfoundland dog. 

Tt was surprising, too, to see how fast the little old 
man could get on with the aid of his short, thick stick, 
which, at every step, he put down with the vim of a 
third foot. 

They soon came out of the thickest woods, to where 
the trees grew farther apart, under the walls of the 
manor-house. They diverged to the right, where the 
broad gate leading to the rear of the premises stood 
open, and through which they could see the firelight 
gleaming from the windows of the Red Wing. 

Here the old man stopped and said : 

“ I’ll bid yer good night here, Miss Em., and hurry 
back home. No use to try Sereny’s temper more’n 
necessary, if I has got a silver half dollar to satisfy her. 


210 


Em's Husband. 


So I’ll bid you good-night, and de Lord bless you 
honey.” 

“And you, too, Uncle ’Sias, good-night, and thanks,” 
answered Em., as she entered the gate and walked 
rapidly towards the lighted windows of her cheerful 
home. 


CHAPTER XX. 

REVIVAL. 

'Twas many and many a year ago, 

In days when we were young, 

And o’er all life’s coming morning, lo ! 

Hope’s magic glory hung. 

Persever. 

“Well, Em. Palmer, and where have you been? I 
had been expecting you home, for more’n an hour, and 
was just thinking of sending Tom to look for you, for 
fear something had happened to you !” exclaimed Susan 
Palmer, on seeing her daughter enter the house. 

“ I have been nowhere but to Edengarden, mother,” 
answered the girl, as she threw off her shawl and bon- 
net and prepared to help the busy housewife, who was 
actively engaged in preparing the supper, while the 
three little girls were all employed in setting the 
table. 

“But what kept you so long? It’s dangerous for a 
young girl to stay out so late in these woods !” 

“ Oh, dear mother, I was safe enough ! Old ’Sias 
came with me up to the gate ; and as for what kept 
me,” said the girl, coming up close to the side of the 
woman, “I will tell you that as soon as we are alone.” 


Revival. 


21 1 


“ I — I hope it was no harm !” whispered Susan, anx- 
iously. 

“ None in the world, dear mother, but something 
that you will be glad to hear, only, hush , I can’t tell you 
here ! But where is Aunt Monica, that you should be 
getting supper ?” inquired Em. aloud. 

“ Oh, Aunt Monica is a fixture at the bedside of Ann 
Whitlock !” answered Susan. 

“ Ann Whitlock ! What, is she sick ? She was well 
enough when I left home !” 

“ She’s sick enough now, then. She fell down in a fit 
this afternoon as sudden as if she’d been shot or struck 
with lightning ! She was sitting at this very fire, knit- 
ting, when it happened. If I hadn’t been on the spot 
and picked her up in a minute, she might a been burnt 
to death !” 

“ Oh, how shocking ! Oh, how sorry I am ! What 
was it, mother ? What sort of a fit ?” 

“ Monica says it is a paralytic stroke, just tike that 
what laid her own old marster low. You see, Monica 
was in the room when it happened, and she helped me 
to tote the old woman to the settee and lay her on it. 
And then, while we plied hartshorn to her nose, and 
beat her hands and that, I sent all the children in 
different directions to hunt for their father, for I 
didn’t exactly know whether he was in the barn or the 
stables, or where. But, law ! we might as well a beat 
a dead corpse ! She didn’t give no more signs of life, 
nor nothing !” 

“Oh, how dreadful!" cried Em, sitting down and 
clasping her hands. 

“ Well, so it is ; but you know Ann Whitlock was 
quite aged.” 

“ She never had a spell of sickness in her life before, 
though !” 


212 


Em's Husband, 


“ No, if she had had she might have died. As it is, 
she has lived to this old age until all her body is worn 
out at once, and down she draps !” 

“Has a doctor seen her? But, oh, of course, not! 
There has been no time to get one here ! But has a 
doctor been sent for, mother ?” 

“ I was just agoing to tell you, Em. The boys found 
their father in the stable and told him what had hap- 
pened, and he told them to saddle one of the fastest 
horses and bring it round to the door for him, and he, 
you see, hurried on to the house as hard as ever he 
could to see exactly what was the matter. When he 
see Ann Whitlock lying in that state on the wooden 
settee, he said how we must get her up to her own bed 
as soon as possible, and so he helped me and Monica to 
tote her up stairs, and law, Em., it almost broke the 
three backs of us, she is such a heavy old woman, poor 
soul !” 

“ Poor soul !” echoed the girl, with a sigh. 

“ Well, child, John left us to undress her and get her 
between the sheets as well as we could, and he mounted 
Queen Bess, and off he went for Gray Rock to fetch a 
doctor, and as that is thirty miles off he said he didn’t 
expect to be back much before to-morrow morning.” 

“ And, oh, will she have to wait all that time for 
attendance ?” exclaimed Em., clasping her hands in 
dismay. 

“ She might have had to do so ; but, thank fortune, 
she didn’t ; for what do you think — as your father was 
tearing along for life and death on the river turnpike 
he met Dr. Willet full tilt in the road !” 

“ Dr. Willet !” exclaimed Em., in astonishment. 

“ Dr. Willet!" repeated Susan. “Yes, Dr. Willet, 
who, it seems, had reached Gray Rock in the stage- 
coach this morning, and after resting himself had hired 


Revival ' 


213 


a horse and started to ride to The Breezes, where 
he was going to pay a long promised visit to his friend 
and neighbor, Commodore Bruce ! There ! what do 
you think of that ? If your father, or if the doctor had 
been five minutes earlier or later they must have 
missed each other, for the doctor had just reached that 
part of the road where it turns from the river ’pike to 
enter the mountain pass leading to The Breezes ! 
There ! and if your father had missed him he would 
have to have ridden thirty miles to Gray Rock, and 
thirty miles back, making sixty altogether, before he 
would have got a doctor to poor old Ann Whitlock. 
But there he met Dr. Willet right in the very nick of 
time. Now, what do you think of that , Em.!” 

“ It was astonishing and most fortunate,” said the 
girl ; but her thoughts reverted to the more astonishing 
news she had in store for her mother. 

“ Well, you know as both was agoing of it as hard as 
they ever could go, they all but rid over each other 
before they knew it ; and then they were so glad to see 
each other, and John thanked Dr. Willet for the hand 
he had in getting of him such a good situation as he’s 
got now ; and Dr. Willet asked John how all the 
family was, and then when John told him all was well 
and hearty, save and except Ann Whitlock, which had 
just fell down in a fit, why Dr. Willet just turned his 
horse’s head immediate, and said he would come and 
look after the poor woman, whom he had known in old 
times as a skillful sick -nurse. So about an hour after 
I had seen John ride away, to be gone all night, after 
the Gray Rock doctor, you may just fancy my astonish- 
ment to see him come riding in with Dr. Willet. Why, 
I rubbed my eyes — as much expecting to see the 
President as he !” 

“ But what did he say about poor Auntie Whitlock ? 


214 


Em's Husband. 


Did he say her attack was dangerous— fatal ?” anxiously 
inquired Em. 

“ He said it was a paralytic stroke. She might get 
over it, or she might not ; and he gave most particular 
directions how to treat her, and said as how he would 
see her every day during his stay at The Breezes. We 
will all do the best we can for her, Em., the same as if she 
was my mother and your grandmother ; but, Lord ! 
child, when a woman gets to be seventy-five what can 
you expect but her removal to a better life ?” 

“ Yes, mother,” sighed Em. ; for she was as yet too 
j^oung, too much in love with this present life, to think 
very seriously of that which is to come. 

“ Here’s father and the boys. Now, put supper on 
the table, Em. !” said Susan Palmer, as John and 
his two lads entered the kitchen, which, since the 
weather had turned cold, was used as a dining-room 
as well. 

“ Now, Miss Runaway ! And where have you been 
all day ?’* inquired John Palmer, good-humoredly, as 
soon as he saw Em. 

“ Only to the island, father, dear,” she answered. 

“ She says she’ll tell me what kept her by and by. 
Some poor folks I s’pose that she stopped to do some- 
thing for. Come, John, sit down and begin, or your 
supper’ll be cold,” said the practical housewife. 

John was an obedient husband besides being a hungry 
man, and so he sat down, asked a blessing, and then 
made a vigorous attack on the viands before him. 

They were still at the table when there came a rap at 
the kitchen door. 

Em., being the nearest, left her seat and opened it. 

Then, to the surprise of every one, Lieutenant Ron- 
ald Bruce walked into the kitchen. Yes, walked in 
with the innocent and delighted air of a child who was 


Revival. 


21 5 


doing a voluntary good deed for which he expected to 
be praised and rewarded. And then— just as if he had 
not been forbidden the house that very morning, and 
had not departed both in sorrow and in anger — he shook 
hands with Em., saying : 

“ Good-evening, Miss Palmer. I hope you are quite 
well and then impudently walked up to John and 
Susan, shook hands with them both, nodded to the 
young ones, and said : 

“ Mr. Palmer, I come to you from The Breezes on an 
errand. Dr. Willet was remarking that your sick 
woman, Mrs. Whitlock, needed brandy, and that none 
good was to be found in the neighborhood. So my 
uncle sent down to his own cellar at once and had up two 
bottles of this rare old cogniac — vintage 1781 — and he 
sends it to you with his good wishes. Here it is !” con- 
cluded the young man, taking from each side pocket a 
long, brown paper parcel, unrolling them, and display- 
ing two dusty, mouldy, cobwebbed bottles, which he 
stood upon the supper table. 

Now what could John or Susan do or say ? 

I will tell you what Em. did. She set a chair before 
a vacant place at the table, and said : 

“ Will you join us and take a cup of tea, Mr. Bruce ?” 

“ Thanks ; I will gladly do so, if Mrs. Palmer will 
permit me,” smilingly answered the young man, as, 
taking this permission for granted, he seated himself in 
the offered chair. 

I’m a thousand times obliged to Commodore Bruce, 
and so would Mrs. Whitlock be, if she was conscious 
enough to know anything about it. But I must say I 
am sorry, sir, that you should have taken the unusual 
trouble to bring it over yourself,” said John, divided as 
to his emotions between gratitude and indignation. 

“ Now who was to bring it but me ? The commodore 


Em's Husband. 


2 I 6 


is too old, and the doctor too tired to turn out after 
dinner. And as to trusting one of the men servants— 
why, see here ! I’d trust any of them with any amount 
of money, or of jewels, and they would carry either 
safe as a bank. But when it comes to old cogniac 
brandy, why all the saints and angels in heaven couldn’t 
prevent one of them from drinking half the contents of 
the bottles and filling them up with spring water ! 
And then, you know the brandy would never get here 
at all. The messenger would have been dead drunk 
before night, and dead dead before morning, and honest 
from that time forth, having made a meal for many 
crows ! Now do you see ? The affair is in a nut-shell. 
I had to bring the brandy myself.” 

“ And I am sure it was very kind of you, sir, and we 
are all very grateful,” said Susan Palmer, politely, as 
she handed the unbidden guest a cup of tea. 

John sighed. 

“ I tried to put a damper on this here ; but it’s no 
use. ‘ Sich is life,’ ” he muttered in confidence to his 
own grizzled, black beard. 

“And you’ll not turn me out to-night, I feel sure, 
my kind hostess ?” said the young man, as he bowed in 
accepting the cup and the compliment. 

“ Indeed, no ! Your room is ready just as you left it, 
this morning ! Turn you out, indeed ! What ! to ride 
up that breakneck mountain-pass in the dead of night ? 
Not likely. Even if you wanted to go ever so much, I 
wouldn’t let you do it, no, not if I had to keep you by 
force and violence !” said Susan. 

“ Quite right. I shall give you no trouble, my gentle 
jailer,” laughed Ronald Bruce. 

As soon as supper was over, Em. slipped away and 
went up stairs to inquire how her poor, old friend, Mrs. 
Whitlock, was. 


Revival. 


2 1 7 


Ann Whitlock’s chamber was over the dining-room. 
As Em. entered it, she saw that it was at once warmed 
and lighted by a blazing wood fire in the fire-place, 
near which sat old Monica in a big arm-chair. 

The sick woman lay on her comfortable bed, appar- 
ently asleep. 

Em. closed the door noiselessly and crossed the room 
on tiptoe. When she had reached the side of old 
Monica, she whispered : 

“ Will my whispering disturb her ?” 

“ Oh, no, honey ; nothing ’sturbs her. She don’t 
take no notice ob nothing,” answered the old nurse, 
not in a whisper exactly, but in that low tone that well- 
trained people use in a sick-room. 

“ Is she very ill, Aunt Monica ? You know as well 
as anybody.” 

“ Oh, no, honey. Not near so bad as what old 
marster was. Why, she can swallow and look at you ; 
dough she can’t move or speak.” 

“ Do you think she will get over it ?” 

“ Yes, honey, dough I doubt she will ebber be as well 
as she was before. And whenebber she hab another 
’tack like dis, it will be sure to finish her, honey ! But 
she’s gettin’ de best of ’tention now, you may be sure, 
honey.” 

“ I know she is. Now Aunt Monica, I will take your 
place and watch here until you go down and get your 
supper.” 

“ No such thing, Miss Em. ! I heard young Captain 
Bruce come in just now, and I ain’t agwine to take you 
away from hi company for de sake o’ my supper. So 
you go right straight down stairs and entertain de 
young gentleman as you ought for to do !” 

“ No, Aunt Monica ; you know that I will not. Mrs. 
Whitlock has always been a kind friend to me, and I 


2 I 8 


Em! s Husband. 


must help to wait on her. Go now and get your sup- 
per.” 

“ Well, Miss Em., when you have once said a thing I 
know you’ll stick to it ; so I’ll go down,” replied the old 
woman, getting up and leaving the room. 

Em. went to the bedside and looked at the paralytic. 

Ann Whitlock lay there like one placidly sleeping ; 
there was no sign of suffering about her. 

Em. knelt beside her and offered up an earnest 
prayer for her recovery, and then she returned to her 
arm-chair before the fire, sat down and lapsed into 
thought. She had so much to think of ! Her meeting 
with the Lady of Edengarden ; her discovery of the 
identity of this lady with that of the long mourned 
Emolyn Wyndeworth ; the strong, mutual attraction 
that seemed to draw and bind her to that lady and that 
lady to her ; the fatal attack of Ann Whitlock ; the 
unexpected arrival of Dr. Willet ; the sudden re-appear- 
ance of Ronald Bruce ; — all these* unexpected events, 
that seemed to have in them something of the nature 
of destiny, took hold on her imagination, filled her 
mind and occupied all her thoughts. 

Time passed unheeded until the re-entrance of old 
Monica, who unceremoniously said : 

“Now, honey, if }^ou please, I’ll jes’ take my old 
rocking-chair, and you’ll go down stairs to your young 
man ! Young man for young gal, and ole rocking- 
chair for ole ’omen. Behold de beauty ob de ’daptations!” 
concluded Aunt Monica, as she settled herself in the 
depths of the softly-cushioned arm-chair and put out 
her feet to the fire. 

Em. stepped on tip-toe from the room, noiselessly 
closed the door behind her and went down stairs, where 
she found the family circle gathered around the kitchen 
fire, listening to one of Ronald’s sea yarns. 


Revival . 


219 


The young man arose and gave her his chair, and 
went and got another, which he took good care to place 
beside her as he seated himself. 

How Ronald taxed his brain that night to invent 
marvelous stories of voyages, storms, battles, fires, ship- 
wrecks, rescues, pirates, barbarous shores, desert 
islands, deliverances, and treasure- trove ! 

And how John listened with eyes wide open and 
mouth often agape to swallow such huge prodigies. 

In a short pause, while John mended the fire, Ronald 
found time, to whisper to Em.: 

“ If everything else goes by the board, my dear, and 
you and I have to go to housekeeping together in a 
cottage, I can keep the pot boiling by writing stories 
for the papers, can’t I ?” 

“ Oh, Ronald ! Then it is not all true ?” whispered 
Em. 

“ I suppose it is — of some other people on some other 
seas and shores, on some other planets in this bound- 
less universe, or it never would have come into my 
head ; but it is not true of this world, as far as I know !” 

When the last wonderful tale was told, the family 
separated and retired to bed, leaving only Em. and her 
mother to settle up the kitchen. 



CHAPTER XXI. 

THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 

Heaven has to all allotted, soon or late, 

Some happy revolution of their fate ; 

Whose motions, if we watch and guide with skill, 
(For human good depends on human will,) 

Our fortune rolls as from a smooth descent, 

And from the first direction takes its bent. 

Dryden. 

“ Do you think they are all in bed and asleep ?” whis- 
pered Em., as, having covered up the kitchen fire, the 
mother and daughter stood for a moment on the 
hearth, each with a short candle in a brass candlestick 
in her hand. 

“ They are all abed, I’ll warrant you. I can’t say 
about their being asleep, though. Why do you ask ?” 
inquired Susan. 

“ Because one or another of the boys, or father, is 
sometimes going around after some door or window 
they have forgotten to look to, or something else, long 
after we have supposed them to be abed and asleep, 
mother.” 

“ Well, what of it, Em ?” 

“ Why, mother, I have something to tell you that I 
do not wish to have overheard by anybody.” 

“ Is it the reason why you have stayed out so long ?” 
f220l 


The Wheel of For' tune. 


221 


“ Yes, mother.” 

“ Well, now Em., that can keep till to-morrow morn- 
ing. I know it’s about some poor family you have 
been visiting and want me to help, without your telling 
me, and I can attend to it to-morrow. I am too tired 
to-night for anything but my bed. There !” 

“ But, dear mother, it is not about any family that 
needs help, or anything of the sort ! Oh, mother, it is 
something I cannot speak to you of in the morning, 
when there is so much going to and fro, and we have 
no privacy.” 

“ Well, then, I do suppose it is about Ronald Bruce 
you want to talk to me. But it is of no use, Em. ! I 
agree with your father. You must give that young 
man up and forget him. And after to-morrow he must 
not be allowed to come here again ! He got his walk- 
ing papers this morning, and he ought to have been 
guided by them, and not returned. Though, of course, 
as he did so, and brought that rare old brandy for the 
sick woman, I had to attend to him and treat him with 
politeness. And, besides, to tell the truth, he has a 
way with him that nobody can resist ! That’s the reason 
I say he must never come here again ! I told your 
father that he must put him on his honor not to come 
again unless he came with Commodore Bruce’s authority 
to marry you. As that’s impossible, he’s sure not to 
return.” 

“ It was not of Mr. Bruce I wished to speak, mother,” 
said Em., in a low tone. 

“ Well, then, what in the name o’ sense was it ?” de 
manded Susan Palmer, somewhat impatiently, for she 
was tired, and sleepy, and wearying for bed. 

Em. drew nearer, put her lips to her mother’s ear, 
and whispered ; 


222 


Em's Husband. 


“ Of Emolyn Wyndeworth ! I have heard something 
of her fate !” 

“ Eh ! !” cried Susan Palmer, starting and dropping 
her candlestick. She was wide awake now, with every 
vestige of weariness departed, and the longing for bed 
turned into the longing for news. 

“ Come up with me to my attic-room, dear mother ; 
there is a good fire burning there, and we shall be safe 
from interruption ; and oh, I have so much to tell you !” 
said Em., as she stooped and picked up the fallen can- 
dlestick and replaced the candle in it. 

“Em.! are you sure of what you are saying?” ex- 
claimed Susan Palmer, as soon as she could speak. 

“ Quite sure, mother. Come,” said the girl, leading 
the way from the kitchen. 

“ But how on the face of the earth could you have 
heard anything about it ?” breathlessly inquired the 
mother, as she followed her daughter up stairs. 

“ Dear mother, just wait till we get out of hearing of 
any of these rooms, and then I will tell you every- 
thing,” replied Em., in a whisper. 

“ Where did she die ? How long has she been dead ? 
What was the matter with her besides a broken heart ? 
Tell me that if you can,” persisted Susan Palmer, as 
she tugged breathlessly* up the attic stairs after her 
daughter. 

“Mother, she is not dead,” whispered Em. 

“ EH ! !” cried the woman. 

“ Hush-sh-sh — here we are at my room. Come in, 
mother, and when I have shut the door I will tell you 
all about it,” said Em., as she entered, followed by her 
eager listener. 

Em. secured the door, rolled the easy-chair up before 
the cheerful fire, made her mother sit down comfortably 
in it, drew a low stool to her side, seated herself, and 


The Wheel of For time. 


22 3 


prepared to commence her narration ; but was vehem- 
ently interrupted by Susan’s breathless inquiries : 

“ You say she’s not dead ? Are you sure ? How do 
you know ? If she is not dead, where has she been all 
this time that no one has ever heard of her ?’•’ 

“ Mother, dear, I do not quite know, except that she 
has been at Edengarden, and travelling. But though 
living, she has been dead to the world, she says.” 

“ ‘ She says' ’ Why, for Heaven’s sake, girl, have you 
seen her and heard her talk, yourself V exclaimed Susan, 
in a transport of wonder almost as great as if she had 
heard Em. tell of seeing and hearing a spirit from 
Paradise. 

“Yes, mother, dear, how else could I have known 
anything about the lady ?” said Em., who would then 
have delivered a “ plain unvarnished tale ” of her day’s 
adventures, had not Susan’s impetuous cross-examina- 
tion precluded all possibility of a consecutive narrative. 

Em. was put upon the witness-stand and compelled 
to answer as she was questioned. 

“ When did you see her ? Where was she ? How 
came you to meet her ? How did she look ? What did 
she say ?” 

“ I met her by accident this afternoon on the island, 
while I was looking at one of the pictures in the house. 
She looked thin and white, but young and beautiful as 
any angel, for all that. She asked me my name, and 
when I told her she seemed to know all about me, and 
was very kind to me, and sent her love to you, and 
wishes you and old Aunt Monica and father to come 
with me to see her to-morrow, if possible, or if not, as 
soon as you can,” answered Em., pouring out her news 
as rapidly as she could to satisfy the ravenous demands 
of the inquirer. 

“ Well — well — well ! Wonders will never cease in 


224 


Em. ’s Hu sban d. 


this world. Why, this beats Mr. Ronald’s sea yarns, 
Em, Emolyn Wyndeworth alive ! Emolyn Wynde- 
worth the Lady of Edengarden ! So near us, and not 
to let me know — me, who loved her so dearly, and had 
good cause; for the child sold her very clothes to buy 
my children bread !” 

And here Susan Palmer began to cry, though she 
could not for her life have told whether it was for 
present joy or remembered sorrow. It was probably 
from both causes. 

“ Not to let me know she was living, and so near — me, 
who named my prettiest child after her !” sobbed Susan. 

“ But, mother, she has let you know. She has sent 
you word by me. Remember, she has only been here 
for a few days — since the first of October.” 

“Oh ! You didn’t tell me that , Em. I thought she 
had been here all the summer, as the people say she 
generally is. I wish you would tell a straight story , Em., 
and then I could understand things better,” said Susan 
Palmer, as she wiped her eyes on her clean apron. 

“ That is just what I have been trying to do, mother ; 
so, if you will let me, I will begin at the beginning and 
tell you every particular so plainly that it will be as 
good as if you had gone there with me yourself and 
seen and heard everything.” 

“Well, then, so do, Em., and I’ll not interrupt you,” 
said Susan, settling herself comfortably back in the 
old easy-chair, and stretching out her feet to the fire. 

And, having had her first ravenous and devouring 
cravings of curiosity satisfied, the good woman kept 
her word, and sat and listened with patient attention 
while Em. gave her a careful and detailed account of 
her visit to the island and interview with the Lady of 
Edengarden. 

Even when Em, had finished her narrative her 


























The Wheel of Fortune. 


225 


mother showed 110 disposition to retire. All sense of 
weariness and drowsiness seemed to have vanished. 
Susan Palmer appeared to be disposed to sit up all 
night before the fire in her daughter’s chamber, talking 
of Emolyn Wyndeworth. 

“ I wonder what she has been doing all these years 
when she has not been at Edengarden ? Travelling all 
over the world, I do suppose, scattering blessings 
wherever she passed, I know ; for the good of others 
was her only object, thought of self was never in her 
heart. I hardly think she ever felt she had any self 
until that sharp trouble of hers pierced her through 
and through, and drove her out into the desert places 
of the world.” 

“ What trouble was that of hers, dear mother, can 
you tell me ?” inquired Em. 

“ No, I can’t tell you. I think she will some day, as 
she has taken such a wonderful fancy to you. You say 
she wants you, Em ?” 

“ Yes, mother, dear, she wants me to live with her as 
j companion, I suppose. She must be very lonely, you 
| know.” 

“ Would you like to go, Em ?” 

“Oh, dear mother, yes indeed, if you and father are 
willing to part with me.” 

“ It would hardly be like parting with you to lend 
yon to her, so near us too ! And it would help you to 
forget that young man, whom you must forget, Em. 
Well, child, if she \^ants you. and you want to go to her 
you shall go j so that is settled. Your father would 
never dream of making any objection, when anything 
as much for your good as that is in every respect turns 
up.” 

“ I was sure you would like me to go, mother.” 

“ Why, of course. Now, I tell you what we will do. 


226 


Em! s Husband. 


To-morrow morning, if no change for the worse takes 
place in poor Ann Whitlock, we will borrow old ’Sias’s 
boat, and me and you and your father, just us three 
and no more, will start for Edengarden. And when 
we get safe in the middle of the river, out of hearing 
of every one but the water-fowl, we will tell father all 
about it ! And, oh, won’t he be astonished ? But we 
won’t drop a word of it to him, or any one else, until 
then. As to old Monica, although we have the lady’s 
leave to do it, we will not say anything to her yet 
awhile either. It would only distract her mind from 
the sick woman, who needs all her attention. What do 
you think, Em.?” 

“ Dear mother, I think you are quite right. Oh, let 
us be very cautious ; for though I cannot imagine why 
that lovely Lady of Edengarden should wish to keep her 
identity as Emolyn Wyndeworth concealed beyond that 
it is from the memory of some great sorrow suffered in 
her youth — still, I know she made such a strong point 
of our keeping her secret when she gave me her confi- 
dence, that I would not for all this world could offer 
me even seem to betray the trust !” 

“ Don’t be afraid o’ me, Em. ! I can be as secret as 
the grave,” said Susan Palmer. 

The clock in the hall clanged out twelve. 

“ I declare, it is midnight ! Good-night Em. ! I 
must go to bed, though I don’t believe I shall sleep a 
wink this night, with thinking of Emolyn Wyndeworth!” 
said the good woman, as she lighted her candle and 
left the room. 

Em. did not go to bed, however. She drew the 
brands together to make them safe, laid a* log upon 
them to keep the fire, and then blew out her candle 
and tripped down stairs to Ann Whitlock’s room, which 
she entered. 


The Wheel of Fortune . 


227 


She found the sick woman either sleeping or uncon- 
scious, and old Monica sitting in the arm-chair before 
the fire, wakeful and watchful. 

“ I have come to tell you that you must lie down and 
sleep. I will take your place until daylight,” said Em., 
leaning over the chair. 

Old Monica resisted this mandate ; but Em. insisted, 
and finally the nurse compromised matters by simply 
lying down on the outside of the bed behind Ann Whit- 
lock, where she soon fell fast asleep. 

Em. herself felt very drowsy, so, for fear of following 
old Monica’s example if she should sit in the old rocker, 
over the fire, she drew a very une. asy, hard, and high- 
backed chair to the side of the bed, and sat down to 
watch her patient. 

When feeling herself almost overcome by sleep, she 
would rise and walk noiselessly up and down the room. 

If her patient stirred she would give her a teaspoon- 
ful or more of beef tea and brandy, which the sick 
woman would swallow mechanically. 

If the fire burned low, she mended it by putting on 
fresh logs. 

And so she passed the night in the sick room. 

When morning dawned she did not wake old Monica ; 
but the aged are never long or heavy sleepers ; so, as 
the first rays of the rising sun streamed through the 
open slats of the window shutters, the old nurse opened 
her eyes, sat bolt upright on the bed, took an instant 
to collect her faculties, and then got down and said : 

“ Lord bless you, honey, for dis ’freshing nap as I 
have had ! Now, tell me how you bofe got along ’dout 
me.” 

“ You bofe ” being supposed to signify the young 
nurse and her patient, Em. gave Monica a full and 
satisfactory report of the night’s watch. 


228 


Em's Husband ’ 


Then the girl went up to her own room, took a 
refreshing wash in ice-cold water, and after brushing 
her hair and changing her dress she felt as wide 
awake as if she had slept, instead of watching all 
night long. 

She went down into the parlor, expecting to find 
some part of the family there in honor of their guest. 

She found no one but Ronald Bruce, standing with 
his back to the wood-fire. 

He sprang to meet her. 

“ Dear Em., I have been here since daybreak, hoping 
some good spirit favorable to poor, unfortunate lovers 
might whisper in your ear and send you down to see 
me,” he exclaimed, as he took both her hands and drew 
her towards him. 

But she slipped away and evaded the kiss he meant, 
as she said to him : 

“ Ronald, I am glad to speak to you alone for a 
moment, and for the last time, dear Ronald, until our 
meeting shall be sanctioned by my parents and your 
uncle.” 

“ Little prude! Little prig!” muttered the young 
man, half sulkily, half lovingly. 

“ I wanted to tell you, Ronald, that my mother and 
father both love you very dearly. Indeed, you ought 
to know that.” 

“ Perhaps I do know it and presume on it a little !” 

“ But for all that, Ronald, for reasons that you know 
of, my father intends this morning to put you upon 
your honor never to come to this house, or seek my 
presence again, until you can come with your uncle’s 
sanction.” 

“ As if my uncle had a parent’s authority over a man 
twenty-three years old !” impatiently burst forth the 
youth. 


The Wheel of Fortune. 


229 


“ However that may be, my father insists that j^ou 
seek my hand only with your uncle’s sanction. And 
now, Ronald, I must be brief in what I have to say to 
you, for some one may come in at any moment. It is 
this, dear Ronald : Submit to my father’s terms patiently. 
He loves you as well as me, and he would not do 
anything that he did not believe would be for your 
good as well as for mine.” 

“ I wish to the Lord in heaven that people would 
mind their own business and leave us and our good 
alone !” vehemently exclaimed the vexed lover. 

“ Ronald ! Ronald ! How can you say such things 
in reference to father ? He has a right to be obeyed by 
his own daughter and in his own house ! But listen, 
dear Ronald, for this is what I wished to say to you : 
Be putient. I am convinced that all will soon be well.” 

“ Em., my dearrest, what do you mean by that ? Have 
you — ” 

But before the young man could utter another word 
John Palmer entered the room, bid his guest a cordial 
good-morning, and invited him to walk in to breakfast, 
which was waiting for them. 

Ronald returned the greeting, and then openly gave 
Em. his arm, and took her in to breakfast. 

They no longer treated the young lieutenant as a 
stranger, so all the family were assembled around the 
table, only waiting for his entrance to take their seats. 

After greetings had been exchanged they sat down. 

Susan dispensed the tea and coffee ; John the broiled 
venison steaks ; and Em. the buckwheat cakes. 

Love had not taken away the young man’s appetite, 
for he did full justice to the food set before him. 

When breakfast was over he took leave of his kind 
hostess and her family, gave Em 's hand a prolonged 
squeeze, and, attended to the yard by John Palmer? 


Em's Husband. 


230 


went out and mounted his horse, and started for The 
Breezes, wondering as he rode slowly away what Em. 
could have meant by her cheerful prophecy that all 
would soon be well. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

HOPE. 

Hope bids me hope ! In that consoling word 
Is peace and comfort to my soul restored. 

None without hope has loved the brightest fair. 

For love can hope where reason would despair. 

Lord Lyttleton. 

“ Did you ask that young gentleman not to visit here 
again ? Did you put him on his honor not to come ?” 
anxiously inquired Susan Palmer of her husband, as he 
re-entered the kitchen after seeing his guest off. 

“ Well,” said honest John, hesitating, and looking 
down, “ to tell you the plain truth, Susan, I didn’t.” 

“ You didn’t !” 

“ No I have been trying to tell him all yesterday 
and this morning, but he was so very kind and pleasant 
all the while, that I hadn’t a chance to break in any- 
where, even edgeways, to say he must never come back 
again. Well, I hadn’t the heart to do it — there ! Why, 
I could as soon have struck a friend in the face while he 
was smiling up into mine.” 

Em. went up to her father, put her arms around his 
neck and kissed him quietly. 

“ Yes, but you know I ought to have forbidden him 
the house, though, all the same, Em.,” whispered John 
Palmer, shaking his head. 


Hope. 


231 


“ Oh, no, no, no, dearest father, no ! Your kind heart 
led you right,’' exclaimed Em. 

“ I know I can trust you, Em. You will not disobey 
me, my girl ?” 

“ Oh, never, never, father ! I will never do anything 
you disapprove.” 

“ I know it, my darling. You are safe enough.” 

“ That’s not the question,” snapped Susan. “ It’s the 
girl’s peace and quietness I’m thinking of, and if that 
young man is to be allowed to come here whenever he 
pleases, how is she ever to forget him, I’d like to know? 
Being as things are, the sooner Em. leaves home the 
better.” 

“Well,” sighed John, “ ’twas you, Susan, as gave him 
the heartiest welcome last night, and now you blame 
me — but ‘ sich is life.’ ” 

Having finished with his favorite bit of philosophy, 
John took his pipe from the mantelpiece and walked 
out to the orchard, where the negroes were gathering 
winter apples for storing. 

He had scarcely left the house when Dr. Willet ar- 
rived on his morning visit. 

He tied his horse and walked into the open door of 
the passage without ceremony. 

Em. met him as she came out of the kitchen. 

“ Well, my dear, how do you do ? How do you like 
living in the country ? It is only a few months since 
you left town, yet I dare say now it seems to you quite 
a long while,” said the good doctor, cheerful^, as he 
shook hands with the girl. 

“ It seems a life-time, sir, since we lived in Laundry 
lane ! Longer even than that. It seems — that period, 
I mean— to belong to some remote state of pre-exist- 
ence !” answered Em. 


232 


Em's Husband. 


“ I thought so ! I thought so !” said the doctor, with 
evident satisfaction. “ So you don’t pine to return ?” 

“ Oh, no, sir, no ! And yet the old lane and the poor, 
dear children who still live there !” said Em., compas- 
sionately. 

“Yes, yes. Ah, here comes your mother! Well, 
Mrs. Palmer, how is our patient to-day ?” 

“ Oh, Doctor, good-morning to you ! She is better, I 
think. I have just come down from her bedside. She 
can move her hands and feet, but can’t turn over yet. 
She can also chew and swallow, but she can’t speak. 
And she seems to understand every word we say to her, 
but she can’t answer except by signs.” 

“Just so, but all that is a very great improvement 
since yesterday. I will go up and see her.” 

“ Oh, Doctor, wasn’t it a Providence you being in the 
neighborhood just at this time !’* 

“ It was fortunate,” said Dr. Willet, as he followed 
Mrs. Palmer up stairs. 

Era. took her work-basket and sat down to sew, until 
the return of her mother and the physician. 

After an absence of about twenty minutes they came 
down the steps, talking cheerfully, the doctor more 
than confirming the hopeful report of the nurse as to 
the old patient’s amendment. 

When Dr. Willet had taken a kindly leave of all the 
family and had ridden away, Em. said to her mother : 

“ Don’t you think now that we might trust Mrs. 
Whitlock with Aunt Monica and Aunt Sally, and get 
father to take us to Edengarden, mother ?” 

“ Yes, child, yes, I was planning the very same thing 
myself ! I’ll send one of the boys to fetch Sally, and 
you can throw your shawl over your head and run 
down and meet your father in the orchard, and speak 
to him about taking us. And mind, girl, be cautious ! 


Hope . 


233 


Not one word about the Lady of Edengarderi until we 
three are on the boat alone together in the middle of 
the river, out of earshot of every human being except 
ourselves.” 

“ Oh, mother, never fear me !” said Em., as she took 
her shepherd’s plaid shawl from its peg, wrapped it 
around her head and shoulders, wearing it as grace- 
fully as ever Andalusian beauty wore, her fascinating 
“rabousa,” and tripped out of the house on her way to 
the orchard. 

“ Father, you are not very busy to-day ?” she said, 
interrogatively, as she came up to John Palmer, stand- 
ing amid a group of busy apple-pickers. 

“ Well, no, Em., not particularly. Why did you ask, 
my lass ?’ ; 

“ Because, if you can spare the time, mother and I 
wish you to take us in the row-boat down to Eden- 
garden Island.” 

“ Well, there ! If I have asked your mother once to 
go to Edengarden, I have asked her fifty times this 
summer, and never could get her to go. No, she 
wouldn’t trust herself on the water ! But now, she 
will go ! Well, ‘sich is life.’ Of course, I’ll spare the 
time, my dear ! When do you want to go ?” 

“ Now.” 

“ That’s short and sweet. Now, then, run home and ' 
get ready, and I will send word down to old ’Sias to 
have the boat out.” 

Em. went home as fast as she had come out, and told 
her mother to prepare for the trip. 

As for Em. herself, her preparations were soon made ; 
they consisted only in lowering her shawl to her 
shoulders, putting a little brown felt hat on her head, 
and drawing a pair of gloves on her hands. 

Susan only waited to receive Aunt Sally and place 


234 


Em's Husband. 


her in charge of the house, and then went with Em. out 
to join John, who, in his Sunday clothes, was waiting for 
them out of doors. 

The three walked briskly down the leaf-strewn road 
that led to the park gate. 

“ Long time since you and I have had an outing 
together Susan ! And this came so unexpectedly it has 
all the pleasure of a surprise as well as of a holiday,” 
said John, gayly, for he seemed honestly to enjoy his 
“ outing,” as he called it, in company with his wife and 
his favorite child. 

“ I’m sure, John, this time yesterday I had as much 
idea of going to Europe as going to Edengarden.” 

“ Well, and what put it into your head to-day, my 
dear ?” 

“ I — I changed my mind,” replied Susan, evasively. 

“ You did ? Surely. Well, * sich is life.’ ” 

“ Here we are at the gate, and it is propped open. 
Old ’Sias is down on the shore with a boat, I suppose, 
and as for Sereny, she’d see us stand here forever before 
she would take the trouble to open the gate. The only 
way in which she ever exerts herself is in whacking old 
’Sias,” said Susan, as they passed through the gate, 
which John carefully locked behind them. Then he 
put the key in his pocket, with the intention to give it 
to old ’Sias down on the shore. 

A rapid walk through the thick woods brought them 
down to the banks of the river. 

Old ’Sias was there, standing in the boat, and look- 
ing out for the expected party. 

John Palmer greeted him kindly, delivered the keys 
of the gate, and cautioned him against ever leaving it 
open again. 

Old ’Sias remarked that “ Jordan was a hard road to 
travel for any poor pilgrim who had duties to perform, 


Hope . 


235 


on the one hand, and a Sereny to perform on him, 
t’other." 

But he resigned the command of the boat to John 
Palmer, and made the best of his way to his special 
post of duty. 

John helped Susan into the boat, and seated her com- 
fortably. 

Em. entered, unassisted, seated herself in her accus- 
tomed place, and took the tiller. 

John laid himself to the oars, and rowed swiftly from 
the shore, while Em. steered for the island. 

“ What in the name o’ sense makes you hold on 
to that stick, Em. ?” inquired Susan, impatient of every 
motion she did not understand. 

“ This stick, as you call it, mother, is the rein that 
guides our water-horse down the river.” 

“ I wish you would talk straight sometimes, Em. !” 
exclaimed her mother. 

The girl laughed and then explained the simple 
action of the tiller. 

When they had reached the middle of the river, Em. 
said : 

“ Dear father, rest on your oars for a little and 
let us drift slowly down stream. We did not bring you 
out to-day for pleasure only, but to tell you a secret 
that we feared the very leaves might hear, and the 
birds repeat, if we told it on land.” 

“ Eh ! What ! A secret ! A dangerous secret !” 
exclaimed John, pausing in his work and staring at his 
daughter. “ None o' the boys ain’t been up to doing 
nothing wrong, have they ?” he continued, in growing 
anxiety. 

“ No, dear father, nor the girls neither,” said Em. 

“ Whatever trouble you may have to bear in this 
world, John Palmer, you may be sure of one thing 


236 


Em's Husband. 


— that your children will never bring it on you,” 
added Susan. 

“ But — what’s the matter !” inquired puzzled John. 

“ Tell him, mother,” said Em. 

“ Well, then, listen and never breathe it to a human 
being — Emolyn Wyndeworth is found !” 

John instinctively opened his mouth to speak, but 
found no word to express his astonishment. 

“ But I thought she was dead and gone long, long 
ago,” he said at length. 

“ No, she was only dead to the world, and gone 
far out of the ken of all who ever knew her before,” re- 
plied Susan. 

“ She is the Lady of Edengarden,” added Em. 

“ Eh ! What ! The Lady of Edengarden ! Then 
she must be our Lady of the Manor as well !” ex- 
claimed John, in growing amazement. 

“ She is, and just as soon as this Manor of the Wil- 
derness came into her possession, through the death of 
her relative, old Mr. Elphine, don’t you see, she thought 
of us at once ? Yes, and through Dr. and Mrs. Willet 
she managed to get us all out here without appearing 
to have anything to do with it.” 

“Well,” said John, meditatively. “ I often wondered 
how such a thundering great piece of good fortune ever 
did come to us, who wa’n’t much blessed with rich 
friends f And now I know. But why should the lady 
wish to keep her existence a secret ?” 

“ Oh, John ! you are a man, or you never could have 
asked that question ! Do you think she could ever get 
over the cruel wrong that was done her, innocent as she 
was? Why, even the poor wounded dove goes away 
and hides itself from all eyes to die. She was wounded 
to the very death, and yet she could not die, and she 
would not kill herself ; but she went away and hid her- 


Hope. 


237 


self — innocent as an angel though she was !” answered 
Susan, with emotion. 

“ I’d faced it out if I’d been her !” 

“ Of course you would ; but you wa’n’t her ! And 
now, John Palmer, do you listen to me,” said Susan 
solemnly. “ Nobody but you and me, in this neighbor- 
hood, knows anything about the awful affliction that 
drove this innocent lady into the wilderness. And we 
must be cautious ! We must never speak of her even 
to each other, unle'ss we find ourselves in a boat in the 
middle of the river, as the only place where we can be 
quite sure of not being overheard.” 

“ But — how on earth did you find all this out ?” 
inquired John, scratching his head. 

“ I will tell you all about it,” said Susan. 

And she forthwith gave him a detailed account of 
Em.’s visit to the isle, her unexpected meeting with the 
Lady of Edengarden and the ensuing interview between 
them, during which the lady had revealed herself to 
the girl, and sent messages to the parents requesting 
the latter to visit her at Edengarden. 

While Susan eagerly narrated and John earnestly 
listened, Em. steered the boat as it floated slowly down 
stream. 

“ Now what do you think of that ?” said Susan, when 
she had finished her story. 

John did not know what he thought, and so he could 
not tell her. 

“ Why don’t you speak ?” demanded Susan. 

John had nothing new to say ; so he said : 

“ ‘ Sich is life !’ ” 

And he took up both oars and laid himself to them 
with such vigor that the boat soon cleared the inter- 
vening water and grounded on the sands at the land- 
ing of Edengarden Island. 


238 


Em’s Husband. 


“ Now you two just walk up to the house. I’ll stay 
here with the boat until you come back,” said John 
Palmer as he helped his wife and daughter to land. 

“ Now, John, I do think that is too queer of you ! 
Why can’t you walk up with us when the lady sent you 
an invitation to come, too ?” exclaimed Susan, with an 
injured air. 

“ Now look here, dear woman, s’pose the lady did 
invite me along of you and Em. It was just out of 
kindness and politeness to your husband and Em.’s 
father, not that she cared about seeing me. And don’t 
you see, if she was ever so friendly to me, as she is, and 
has shown herself to be bringing us all to the Wilder- 
ness manor-house, still , in this first meeting, don’t you 
think she’d prefer to see you without me ? You’ll have 
such a deal of woman’s affairs to talk about, you know !” 

“ Father is right, mother,” said Em. 

“ Well, then, come along,” exclaimed Susan. “ And, 
John, you had better fasten the boat and walk up and 
down in the sunshine on the beach. If you sit there, 
you will take cold.” 

With this parting advice Susan followed her daughter, 
who led the way up the narrow path leading from the 
landing through the belt of silver maples, and through 
the ornamented grounds, and up terrace upon terrace, 
until they reached the middle and highest part of the 
island upon which the mansion of white stone stood. 

Susan was loud in her expressions of admiration at 
the beauty of the place. 

When they reached the marble steps that led to the 
main entrance, Em. passed up quickly before her 
mother and rang the bell. 

A colored boy about sixteen years old opened the 
door. 

“ Is Mrs. Lynn at home ?” inquired Em., after she had 


Emolyri s Weird. 


239 


recovered from her momentary surprise at the unex- 
pected sight of a stranger. 

The page took a deliberate view of the mother, and 
then inquired, in his turn : 

“ Name o’ Palmer ?” 

“ Yes, Mrs. Palmer and her daughter,” answered Em. 

“ My mist’ess is at home. Walk in,” said the boy, 
opening wide the door. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 
emolyn’s weird. 

We maun a’ dree our weird. — M eg Merriles. 

They entered the beautiful white hall, with its rain- 
bow windows, around on which Susan Palmer stared 
with open-eyed admiration and wonder. 

“ Mrs. Palmer !” exclaimed the page, throwing wide 
open a door leading into an elegant little parlor on the 
right hand side of the hall, opposite the grand saloon. 

A lady dressed in gray arose from a sofa and advanced 
to meet the visitors. 

“ Oh, Miss Einolyn !” exclaimed Mrs. Palmer, so 
overcome with emotion at the very sight of the lady 
that she sank down at once into the arm-chair which 
Em. quick as thought wheeled to her side. 

Meantime Mrs. Lynn took the girl by the hand and 
kissed her, before turning attention to Susan. 

“ Oh, Miss Emolyn ! That I should live to see you 
again ! Thank Heaven ! Oh, thank Heaven ! And 
you are not changed so much ! Oh, no, indeed !” 


240 


Em's Husband. 


exclaimed Susan Palmer, in almost hysterical excite- 
ment. 

“ Nor are you changed much in all these years, dear 
old friend, or, indeed, changed at all, except for the 
better ! You are plumper and rosier than you used to 
be, Mrs. Palmer,” said Emolyn, as she stood by her 
chair, took her hand, and kissed her gently. 

“ It is the good living, my dear, young lady. It is the 
pure air, and fresh water, and abundant food. It is the 
good living that has given us all new life, which we 
owe to your sweet, kind heart, Miss Emolyn !” said 
Susan Palmer, weeping for joy while she covered the 
hands of her benefactress with kisses. 

“ It makes me so happy to see you so well and pros- 
perous,” said the lady, as she gently withdrew her hands 
from Susan’s clasps and kisses, and seated herself in 
the nearest chair. 

“ Em. has told me all you told her, but, oh, my dear 
young lady — ” 

“ I am not a young lady any longer, Susan,” said 
Emolyn, smiling sadly. “ I am thirty-two and a half 
years old.” 

“ That don’t seem possible, to look at you, Miss Emo- 
lyn, yet it must be so. You must be thirty-two, for you 
were sixteen when - 1 saw you last, and that was nearly 
seventeen years ago ! La ! Em. was a baby then, and 
now she’s a young woman. And, Miss Emolyn, do you 
know we all think Em. the very print of you, as why 
wouldn’t she be when, for months and months before 
see was born, I did nothing but think of you and your 
troubles in your tyrant’s house, my poor, dear young 
lady, and your image was never out of my mind. But, 
oh, my dear child, where have you been all these years 
when we thought you in heaven ?” 

“ Oh, Susan Palmer, it is a long story ! When I left 


Emolyris Weird \ 


241 


the city after passing through that ordeal of fire and 
water, my guardian, dear Uncle Lewis Berners, took 
me to Dranesville for a few days. Then, when’ Pony 
came out to me, he wished to take us home with him to 
Virginia ; but I could not bear to go. So he took me 
to Europe. But lay off your bonnet and shawl, dear 
old friend, for if I tell you all you wish to know, it will 
be some time before I get through.” 

“ I am very much obleeged to you, Miss Emolyn, but 
I left my old man down in the boat, so it ain’t worth 
while to take off my things.” 

“Oh, why did he not come up ?” 

“ Well, honey, he thought we’d like to have a little 
talk by ourselves first.” 

“ And he was right, ma’am, wasn’t he ? And, mother, 
don’t be troubled. Father ’ll fasten the boat and take a 
walk around the island, where he will see enough to 
interest him for hours yet,” said Em., as she took off 
her own hat and shawl and went up to Mrs. Palmer to 
take hers. 

“ Now do you see the cool manner in which that girl 
takes her own way?” said Susan, as she gave Em. her 
bonnet and wraps. 

“ Give them to the boy in the hall, my dear, he will 
put them away for you. And now, Susan Palmer, be 
easy until lunch time, which is not far off, and then I 
will send your daughter to fetch her father, and by the 
time he comes we will have got through all our confi- 
dential talk.” 

“ Well, my dear, young lady— for I shall call you my 
young lady until I see some signs of middle age come 
over you — my dear young lady, have your own way ! 
You can do just as you please with me ! And why not, 
seeing how heavenly good you have been to me ! I’ll 
stay ma’am, and very glad to stay, I don’t deny it,” said 


242 


Em's Husband. 


Susan, with a sigh of satisfaction as she sank back com- 
fortably in the most luxurious arm-chair she had ever 
sat in during her life. 

“ Draw your chair near me, little namesake, so that 
T can hold your hand in mine while I talk,” said 
Emolyn, as she turned a glance full of tenderness on 
Em.’s sympathetic face. 

The young girl did as she was requested, and then, 
with Em.’s hand clasped closely in hers, upon her 
lap, Emolyn began the story of her exile. 

“ I say, after I had passed through that fiery trial, 
my guardian took me out of the city secretly, and hid 
me at Dranesville, an obscure hamlet, where I re- 
mained in my room at the quiet little hotel, unknown, 
until the arrival of Pony with my trunk. Then my 
guardian wished to take me home with him to Black - 
ville. But I could not bear the thought of remaining 
in my native country, or seeing any one whom I had 
ever known before.” 

“ I don’t wonder, my dear ! I don’t wonder, indeed !” 
sighed Susan Palmer, half weeping. 

“ My guardian was very tolerant of my weakness — 
very tender of my suffering. He had retired from the 
practice of law, and having no family but his aged 
sisters, he found it easy to go abroad. So, after a little 
delay necessary to the arrangement of his affairs, he 
took me to New York, and thence to Liverpool. We 
were attended only by my nurse Pony, and his man- 
servant, Prince, who, coming from Blackville, knew 
nothing of the ordeal through which I had just passed.” 

Here Emolyn’s glance falling on the upturned face 
of Em., she said : 

“ You are looking at me with eyes full of wonder 
and pity, my child ! Well, let it be so for awhile. 
You are too young even to hear the horrors through 


Eniolyris Weird. 


243 


which I had to pass when I was younger than you are 
now. Yet I feel sure, Em., that some day I shall tell 
you all.” 

A convulsive clasp of her hand by the girl’s fingers 
was her only answer. 

The lady resumed her story. 

“ It was near the last of July when we landed in 
Liverpool. It was perhaps the very best season in 
which to see England. Better even than the spring, 
for midsummer is never intolerably hot and dry there 
as it is here. Well, we spent two months in travelling 
through England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland. In 
the latter part of September we went to France, where 
we also spent two months in travelling. We did not 
stop in the cities, nor enter any society. Early in 
December we went to Italy, spent six weeks in travel- 
ling through that loveliest of lands, and then we set- 
tled down in Rome for the winter.” 

“ Oh ! Oh ! And did you see the Pope ? And does 
he really wear three crowns on his head, one upon top 
of the other ?” eagerly interrupted Susan Palmer. 

“ I did not see the Pope. We never tried to see any- 
body. But I saw the Vatican — the palace where he 
lives, and I also saw many grand cathedrals and 
palaces.” 

Here again Susan Palmer interrupted the narrator 
with a number of questions that compelled Emolyn to 
describe the Vatican, the other palaces, qathedrals, and 
churches at some length. 

“ In the spring, just before Lent, we saw the carnival 
in Rome.” 

“ Yes ! I have heard mention made about that. It 
is something like a circus and a panorama, and a pro- 
cession, isn’t it ?” inquired Susan. 


244 


E m. 's Hu sba n cl. 


“ Like all of them, together, with a great many other 
spectacles, all on a tremendous scale." 

“Oh, please tell me all about it," exclaimed Susan. 

So Mrs. Lynn had to recall and describe all the gro- 
tesque and gorgeous phantasmagoria of the carnival at 
Rome, before her hearer could be satisfied. 

“ Dear, dear me, what it is to be a traveller !’’ said 
Susan. 

“ As the month of May approached, I became very 
nervous and filled with a horrible despair that threat- 
ened my reason. You know it was the anniversary of 
my great agony, Mrs. Palmer. Why, even after all 
these years, I cannot pass it calmly. And that was the 
first anniversary." 

“ I know, and I do not wonder at anything, my dear 
child, except that you were ever able to live over it at 
all." 

“ My guardian was very good to me ; may Heaven 
bless him ! He took me to -Venice, the most beautiful 
and wonderful city in the world, where there are canals 
instead of streets and gondolas instead of carriages." 

“ Lord bless my soul, Miss Emolyn, how was that ?” 
cried Susan. 

Emolyn explained as briefly as she could the building 
of Venice upon its cluster of small islands, and then 
continued : 

“ We left Italy about the first of June. We spent 
the summer i$ travelling through Russia, Germany, 
Sweden, Norway, and the Shetland and Orkney Islands. 
On the first of September, we took a steamer from 
Glasgow to Constantinople — " 

“ Constantinople !" eagerly interrupted Susan. “ Con- 
stantinople ! Oh, my goodness gracious me alive ! 
That’s better than the city of the Pope, or the city 
built on the sea, either ! It is the city of the Grand 


Emolyri s 1 Veird. 


245 


Turk ! Did you see the Grand Turk ? And does he 
always sit cross-legged on a gold-fringed rug, with a 
long shawl rolled around his head for a turban, and 
smoking a long pipe, with a golden bowl and a room 
full of beautiful girls dancing before him ? And has 
he really a thousand wives ?” 

“ I don’t know. I did not see him, but I think it 
quite likely,” said Emolyn, with a slight smile. 

“ Think of that , now ! The pagan Turk to have 
a thousand wives, ‘more or less,’ and the Pope — the 
poor Pope — to have not one. The laws ought to be 
changed ! But tell me what you did see in the city of 
the Grand Turk ? Though it do seem to me, my dear, 
that in all your travels you saw nothing but places and 
things, not people.” 

“ I did not want to see people,” sighed Emolyn. 

“Ah, I know. How thoughtless I am. Go on, my 
dear young lady.” 

Emolyn described Constantinople, with its splendid 
seraglio, its magnificent mosques, its squalid streets and 
mean dwellings.” 

“ Seems to me there’s as much dif’rence between 
the rich and the poor in pagan cities as there be 
in Christian towns.” 

“Just as much,” said Emolyn with a sigh ; and then 
she continued — “ From Turkey we went to Greece and 
to the Ionian Islands, where we spent the second 
winter of our travels. In the Spring we returned to the 
United States, because I had come of age and it was 
necessary for certain legal forms to be observed by my 
guardian in turning over my estates to me. We reached 
New York about the middle of May, and went down to 
Wynde Slopes in Maryland. But, oh ! my dear friend, 
I was scarcely put in possession of my property before 
I lost my beloved guardian and last remaining friend. 


246 


Em's Husband. 


He passed away at Wynde Slopes after a short and pain- 
less illness, and it is my comfort to think he entered at 
once into his eternal rest. You know, by the terms of 
my father’s will, I was to be considered of age at eight- 
een. I was but a few weeks over that age when 
my dear guardian left me.” 

“ Oh ! Miss Emolyn. He was a good man. I heard 
from Pony of all his devotion to you while you were in 
your trouble. Do go on, Miss Emolyn, and excuse my 
interrupting of you.” 

“ Well, my dear Susan, what I have to tell you now 
cannot be dwelt upon in detail. I sold Wynde Slopes, 
for 1 could not bear that my name, all blurred as it was 
with falsehood and wrong, should remain connected 
with my father’s old ancestral home.” 

“ But however came you to find out about this beau- 
tiful island, honey !” 

Emolyn smiled. 

“ It was not a beautiful island when I found it, 
Susan ; but the way was this : In my restlessness I was 
a rambler. I had, besides, a feeling of affectionate 
curiosity to see the old Wilderness manor-house, in 
which my mother had been born and been brought up. 
I came to Gray Rock, accompanied by Pony, and rode 
over to the Wilderness. I saw the house. It had long- 
been vacant, the master being then in Europe. I did 
not divulge my name to the old servants, nor my rela- 
tionship to their master ; yet, with the courtesy they 
always show to strangers, they took me all over the 
premises, showed me all I wished to see, told me all I 
wished to hear. I returned to Gray Rock that night. 
I had intended to leave the place early the next morn- 
ing ; but both in going to and coming from the Wilder- 
ness I had taken the river road, and seen from its 
banks the desolate, rocky island. It took my fancy 


Emolyn s Weird. 


247 


and haunted me even after I had got home to Gray 
Rock and gone to bed.” 

“ And so you thought you would like to make that 
desert ‘ bloom and blossom as the rose,’ Miss Emolyn.” 

“ Yes, Susan ; and I thought I would like to make a 
home there, where I and Pony could come and rest 
sometimes, ‘ the world forgetting, by the -world forgot.’ 
In a word, before I left the neighborhood, I had pur- 
chased the barren island for a mere trifle, but all that 
it was worth at the time. It would never have paid as 
a plantation, Susan ; but it was well adapted to the 
metamorphosis I made of it, by the three potent genii 
— Labor, Time and Money. Fifteen years ago it was 
a barren rock. You see what it is now.” 

“ It is a paradise now,” said Susan, with enthusiasm. 

“ Yet a paradise that could not hold my restless spirit 
long. After spending one year here, I left it in careful 
hands and resumed my travels, this second time accom- 
panied only by Pony, and such stranger guides and 
couriers as I could pick up en route 

Emolyn here paused so long that Susan Palmer 
inquired : 

“ And where did you go, Miss Emolyn ? Seems to 
me as you had seen all the world before.” 

“ Not a hundredth part of it, Susan. But I did not go 
over the same ground. I sailed for Glasgow, and then, 
without even landing, took ship for Christiana, Norway, 
and travelled over the extreme northern part of 
Europe, dwelling in the huts of the Lapps and Finns, 
and making reindeer journeys from place to place. I 
saw the midnight sun.” 

‘‘The midnight sun, Miss Emolyn!” exclaimed 
Susan in open-mouthed amazement. 

“ Yes, Susan— it is a sublime* and wonderful sight in 
those regions of eternal snow.” 


248 


Em's Husband. 


“ Oome, I feared the poor lady was just a little 
demented, and now I know it,” thought Susan mourn- 
fully. 

“ I passed through Russia and into Siberia, a volun- 
tary exile. I spent a long summer on those savage 
steppes — ” 

“ Steps !” muttered Susan to herself, with a sigh. 

“And then I moved southward without stopping, 
until we reached Alexandria in Egypt.” 

“ ‘ Alexandria in Egypt ! ’ Ah, dear, dear, how her 
mind wanders. Everybody knows Alexandria is in old 
Virginy,” moaned Susan to herself. 

ie l am fatiguing you,” said Mrs. Lynn, perceiving her 
companions uneasiness. “ I must be brief, Susan, 
and tell you in a few words that since that time, 
with the exception of an occasional summer of rest 
on the island here. I have spent all my days in 
travel. I have been all over the civilized and uncivi- 
lized world. I have been where few men and no 
women have ever gone before me — from Greenland to 
to Terra del Fuego ; from Behrings Straits to Ber- 
muda Isles on this hemisphere ; from Cape North to 
Cape Colony, and - from the Coast of Guinea to the Sea 
of Kamtschatka, on the other.” 

“ What a life !” exclaimed Susan with a great sigh. 
11 But of all the countries and the peoples that you saw 
which did you like the best, Miss Emolyn ?” 

“ You will be surprised when you hear — I liked best 
to dwell among the Lapps and Finns !” 

Susan was not surprised, for she had got so “ mixed 
in her mind,” as she said, that she really did not know 
but that the Lapps and Finns were the most enlight- 
ened of European people instead of being Northern 
barbarians. 

“ I have been' to this island more regularly to spend 


Emolyn s Weird. 


249 


the summers for the last few years, until this year, 
when business connected with my inheritance of the 
Wilderness Manor detained me elsewhere until the 
first of October.” 

“ And to think, Miss Emolyn, that the very first 
thing you did after entering upon that inheritance, was 
to think of us in our poverty, that poor, squalid 
Laundry lane, and to bring us to this beautiful, whole- 
some country,” said Susan Palmer, gratefully. 

“ It is true that my very first thought was of you,” 
admitted Emolyn. 

At that moment a distant clock chimed out musically 
the hour of noon. 

“ Now, my little namesake, go find your father and 
bring him to the house to lunch with us,” said the lady. 

Em. immediately arose and left the room to do this 
errand. She went into the hall, where she found her 
hat and shawl hung on an artistic tree carved out of 
malachite. She put them on hastily, and ran out to 
seek her father, whom she expected to find near the 
boat-landing. 

Meantime, the two women, left alone together, looked 
into each other’s faces as if each expected a confidence 
from the other. 

Susan was the first to speak. 

“ Now, Miss Emolyn, that she is gone and we are by 
ourselves, tell me why you have never been able to get 
over your trouble during all these long years ?” 

Emolyn shuddered and covered her eyes with her 
hands. 

“ Oh, I have hurt you, Miss Emolyn. I am so sorry. 
I beg you to forgive me. I ought not to have asked 
you a question. But, dear Miss Emolyn, still you ought 
not to take that old sorrow so much to heart, innocent 
as I know you to be.” 


250 


Em's Husband ’ 


“ Oh, Susan, Susan ! No one could ever entirely 
recover from such a blasting affliction as mine was !” 
cried the unhappy lady. 

“ Not even when you know you was innocent, Miss 
Emolyn ?” 

“ No — not even then ! But, Susan, there is the hor- 
ror of it. I do not know that I am innocent !” exclaimed 
Emolyn, with a low moan of anguish. 

“ Oh, my dear young lady, what ever do you mean ?” 

“ Oh, Susan, Susan ! After all I may have — hurt my 
child /” 

“ Oh, Miss Emolyn, you never, never did ! I would 
stake my soul that you never did. (This is an awful 
symptom of derangement.) You never did, Miss Emo- 
lyn. You have thought about it so much that you 
have got heartsick and brainsick, and ready to accuse 
yourself. Don’t think about it any more, Miss Emolyn. 
You were right to travel, after all. Oh ! pray don’t let 
your thoughts dwell upon it any longer, Miss Emolyn. 
Put it out of your mind !” 

“ But, Susan, I cannot. It is a haunting horror. I 
could — I think 1 could get over even the diabolical mem- 
ory of my trial if only I were quite sure I never harmed 
my child. But oh ! Susan — on that awful night when she 
was born there were hours of agony, followed by hours 
of unconsciousness ! There may have been between 
the agony and the unconsciousness moments of deli- 
rium in which I might have harmed my innocent, help- 
less child ! I do not remember. But then, you know, 
Susan, that people recovering from delirium never 
know or recollect what passed during the fit. I might 
have killed my own child ! Oh, Heaven ! Oh, Heaven ! 
What a haunting horror that thought is to all my days 
and nights !” moaned the miserable woman, swaying 


Emolyris Weird. 


251 


herself back and forth, and covering her face with her 
hands. 

“ Miss Emolyn, m3' child, he comforted ! You are 
clear of that sin ! As sure as I am a living woman you 
have only brooded and brooded over this until you 
have got almost insane ! Now, think of this, Miss 
Emolyn ! When you were first accused, your mind was 
clear enough on the subject. You knew then that' you 
had never hurt your child, and you affirmed it most 
positive and distinct to every one ; and everybody 
believed you, too ! Now, this crazy notion of yours 
has only come of brooding over it.” 

“ Oh, Susan, is that possible ?” 

“ Why, yes, ma’am ! I have heard of such cases 
often and often ! You aught to speak to a physician, 
Miss Emolyn. Here’s Dr. Willet quite convenient. 
Did you know he was in the neighborhood, Miss 
Emolyn ?” 

“ Yes, I knew he was there. He has been to see me 
on this island.” 

“ Well, then, hone} r , speak to him.” 

“ Perhaps. But, oh, Susan, who can ‘ minister to a 
mind diseased ?’ And, Susan,” she continued, sinking 
her voice to a whisper, “ if I did not harm my child, 
who did ? The child was strangled, Susan ! Who did 
it T' 

“ Ah, dear knows, Miss Emolyn, honey !” sighed the 
woman. “ You must pray !” 

“ I ‘must pray.’ Perhaps some late remorse — some 
death-bed confession— may bring out the truth, and 
give me peace I” 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

A GOOD FAIRY. 

A smile of hers is like an act of grace ; 

For when she smiles, a light is on her face, 

A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beam 
Of peaceful radiance, silvering o’er the stream 
Of human thought with an abiding glory, 

Not quite a waking truth, nor quite a dream — 

A visitation bright and transitory. 

H. Coleridge. 

The conversation between the Lady of Edengarden 
and her visitor continued until the return of Em., con- 
ducting her father. 

“This is my husband, madam. John, this is our 
Lady of the Manor,” said Susan Palmer, presenting the 
new arrival to her hostess. 

“ I am very glad to see you, Mr. Palmer. I remember 
you quite well. You are not at all changed, except for 
the better. You are stouter and — taller, I almost think,” 
said Emolyn, holding out her hand. 

“ I am stronger, madam, and more erect, thanks to 
the mountain air and your bounty,” said John, as he 
respectfully received and bowed over the little hand 
held out to him. 

Em. placed a chair for her father, and as he sat down 
I252J 


A Good Fairy. 


253 


upon it she took his hat from his hands and carried it 
out to the tree in the hall. 

At the same moment Emolyn touched a bell that 
brought her page to her presence. 

“ Order luncheon to be served at once," she said. 

The young Mercury flew on his errand. 

Emolyn filled up the short interval by talking to her 
visitor about the old Wilderness Manor-house and its 
historical associations. 

And then the boy returned and announced the repast 
in readiness. 

“ Come, friends," said Emolyn, drawing the arm 
of her young namesake within her own and leading 
the way, followed by John and Susan. 

The lady conducted her guests through a suit of 
sumptuous rooms, each succeeding one seeming more 
splendid than the other, until at length they reached a 
small but elegant dining-room, in the midst of which 
stood the lunch table, laid for four, covered with 
the finest white damask, furnished with Sevres china, 
Bohemian glass and silver, and provided with substan- 
tial fare, as well as with delicate viands. 

The lady of the house made Em. sit on her right 
hand, on one side of the oval table, while John and 
Susan sat opposite on the other side. 

The young page waited on the party. 

The unaffected kindness and simplicity of Emolyn’s 
manner put her visitors quite at their ease, so that per- 
haps never was a repast more enjoyed than was this 
lunch by John aud Susan. 

As for Em., girl-like, she keenly appreciated dainty 
items in the feast — the potted meats and fish, the West 
India preserves and fruits, and the French confections 
and chocolate. 

When the collation was over, Emolyn led her friends 


254 


Em's Husband. 


back to the parlor, and calling her little page to 
her, said : 

“ I want you to tell Pony to come here and see an old 
acquaintance.” 

The boy left the room, and the party in the parlor 
had scarcely settled into their seats when the door 
opened, and a tall, stout, handsome mulatto woman, be- 
comingly dressed in a scarlet French calico, with a 
black silk apron, white collar and cuffs, white turban, 
and large gold hoop ear-rings, entered. 

“ Why, Pony ! Oh ! Pony, I am so delighted to see 
you !” gushed Susan, starting up and holding out her 
hand to the new-comer. 

“ So is I, you, Mrs. Palmer ! ’Pon my word, how 
well you does look, to be sure !” exclaimed the woman, 
heartily shaking the offered hand. 

“ Is that young gal your darter ?” she then, inquired, 
turning her bright black eyes on the girl. 

“ Yes — that’s Em. ! named after your mistress, Pony. 
Come here, Em., and get acquainted with the best 
friend I ever had in the world except Miss Wynde- 
worth,” continued Susan, beckoning to her daughter. 

Em. came up and offered her hand, saying : 

“ I have heard about you all my life, Aunt Mel- 
pomene, and you look just as I supposed you would. I 
never did hope to have the pleasure of seeing you face 
to face ; but, oh, I am so glad to meet you now !” 

“ So am I you, Miss. But, law — did anybody ever see 
such a likeness in this world ?” exclaimed the woman, 
almost staring the girl out of countenance. 

“ As between this lady and myself ?” she replied 
with a blush and smile of embarrassment. “ Oh, yes, I 
have heard it commented upon by so many people — all, 
I think, whoever chanced to see us both.” 

“ Yes,” added Susan, laughing, “ and I have ex- 


A Good Fairy . 


255 


pounded and explained how it was until I am tired. 
Why, Pony, woman, why shouldn’t my child be the 
very image of your young mistress when I had her face 
in my mind for months before this child arrived.” 

“ Well, it’s made her mighty pretty, and that’s the 
solemn truth,” said the woman, gravely. “ But I’ll 
tell you what, Miss Em., beauty is a great snare to the 
young, and unless it is supported by Christian grace, 
my honey, it is likely to fetch more misery than happi- 
ness.” 

“ ‘ Sich is life,’ ” said John sententiously. 

“ Oh, I declare I forgot — Pony, you remember my 
husband, don’t you ?” 

“ Who — Mr. Palmer ? Why to be sure I do ! I hope 
I find you well, sir ! But, my, how stout and portable 
you have got to be, sir !” exclaimed Pony, turning her 
attention now to the overseer. 

“ I am sure I can return the compliment,” said John, 
laughing. 

“ Well, you see, sir, we colored female women folks, 
when we keeps in good health, and is in peace with the 
Lord and the neighbor, is most in general ’dined to 
wax fat as we grow old,” replied Pony, showing all her 
teeth. 

“ ‘ Sich is life,’ ” said John, solemnly. 

“ Indeed, and that is very true, sir, if we could only 
live up to it,” remarked Pony. 

“ You have seen a great deal of the world since I saw 
you , Pony,” put in Susan. 

“ I b’lieve you, ma’am ! Me and my mist’ess ’mind 
me more of ole Satan in Job than anything else in de 
world — a ‘ walking up and down in the earth and going 
to and fro in it.’ Yes, ma’am, me and mist’ess has 
been all over the univarse, from Dansheba to de Deb- 
bil’s Icy Peek !” 


256 


Em.’s Husband. 


“ She means that I have been the tormenting Satan 
and she has been the patient Job,” explained Mrs. Lynn, 
with a smile, adding : “ Now, Pony, we will detain 

you no longer from your lunch.” 

The woman took a laughing leave of her old friends 
and left the room. 

Then Emolyn turned to Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, and 
addressing both, said : 

“ Now, my dear old friends, I wish to make a pro- 
posal to you that I earnestly hope may meet your 
views. I have a pleasant home here — very pleasant 
and healthy at all seasons of the year — but 1 am very 
lonely. I want a young and agreeable companion 
to share my solitude, and for such a one I should try to 
provide a happy home and instructive and profitable 
occupation and amusement. Your sweet girl here suits 
me precisely. If only I can make myself and home as 
attractive to her as she is to me, and if I can gain your 
approval, I wish to receive my young namesake in my 
house, on the footing of a daughter, a younger sister, 
pupil, companion — anything you wish, and on any terms 
you may please to suggest. " 

“ You know, my dear Miss Emolyn, as far as I am 
concerned, you are heartily welcome to Em.’s company, 
on your own terms. It is not for us to dictate to you.” 
said Susan Palmer, cordially. 

Emolyn, smiling, replied : 

“You shall never have cause to regret the confidence 
you repose in me, Mrs. Palmer,” 

“ Oh, I know that, Miss Emolyn. I know that.' 

John Palmer, as yet, had said nothing. 

Em., watching her father, felt a growing uneasiness. 

Emolyn came to the rescue by turning and inquiring 
of the silent man : 

“ What do you think, Mr. Palmer ?” 


A Good Fairy 


257 


“ I think, my dear lady, that we are all of us under 
very deep obligations to you ; more, indeed, than we 
can ever hope to repay. As to our girl, I feel that you 
wish to take her quite as much for her own sake as for 
yours. But, madam, this is sudden,' and under your 
favor, I think we all of us — your honored self as well as 
the rest — had better take a day or two to reflect before 
deciding,” replied John. 

“Very well. How long w T ill you want to reflect 
on this, Mr. Palmer ?” inquired Emolyn. 

(“Oh, the old aggravating, cud-chewing cow ! He’ll 
diddle Em. out of her good fortune yet with his reflec- 
tion,” thought Susan Palmer to herself, feeling more 
impatience at her patient husband than she had ever 
felt before.) 

John thought a moment before answering the lady’s 
question, and then lifting his head, he inquired : 

“ Will to-morrow evening suit you, madam, to receive 
our decision ?” 

“ Thanks, yes, quite well, and I trust it will be 
a favorable one.” 

“ I hope, my dear lady, that you know we are all very 
sensible of your great kindness to us,” said John, rising 
from his seat. 

“Oh,' say no more about that, my good friend,” 
replied Emolyn. 

“ I thank you, madam We will think the more, then, 
if we speak the less. And now, my dear lady, we must 
say good-by, and be getting back to the manor-house,” 
said John, respectfully. 

“ Must you, indeed ? I had hoped to detain you all 
day. I do not like to part with this dear child, who, I 
feel sure, reciprocates my affection,” said Emolyn, 
warmly, 

Em., who was sitting by her side, impulsively raised 


258 


Em's Husband. 


the lady’s hand and pressed it warmly to her lips, as 
in confirmation of the words. 

“ Oh, why can you not stay till evening ? There is 
no moon, to be sure, but then the clear starlight nights 
are very brilliant, and the river is as smooth as a 
mirror,” pleaded Emolyn, with more earnestness than 
the occasion seemed to warrant, as she clasped and held 
Em.’s hand. 

“Well, you see, ma’am, we left a very sick woman in 
our house, Ann Whitlock, who has been with us so long 
that she seems like a relation,” Susan explained. 

“ Ann Whitlock ?” inquired Emolyn, musingly. 

“ Why, my dear young lady, she was the sick-nurse 
that was with your uncle in his latter days, you know.” 

“ Yes, to be sure !” said Emolyn, thoughtfully. 

“ And after that she was nurse in the same hospital 
where I was a patient. And she saved little Em.’s life, 
as I explained to you once, ma’am.” 

“Oh, yes, I remember,” sighed Emolyn. 

“And since then me and John have felt she had a 
claim on us, and we have taken care of her in her old 
days.” 

“ That was very sweet of you, Susan Palmer ! And 
she is sick now, you say ?” 

“ Yes, ma’am, very much so. She had a paralytic 
stroke yesterday while Em. was here. To be sure, she has 
rallied a little, and the doctor thinks there’s no present 
danger of death. Still, nobody can tell. So you see, 
ma’am, we must not leave her all day.” 

d I see,” said the lady, thoughtfully. And she touched 
the bell that brought her young page to her presence. 

She gave him an order in a low voice, and he left 
the room. 

“Em., get our things,” said Susan Palmer. 

The girl went and brought them. 


A Good Fairy . 


259 


While Em. and her mother were putting on their 
shawls and hats, the page returned, bringing a hamper 
of wine, which he set down on the carpet before his 
mistress. 

“ Susan Palmer,” said the lady, “ when my uncle was 
paralyzed the doctor ordered him to drink champagne as 
freely as water. You know it kept him alive for many 
months, if it could not cure him. Take this to your 
invalid, and give it to her freely. When it is nearly 
gone let me know, and I will send another hamper.” 

“ Oh, Miss Emolyn ! how thankful I am ! And how 
grateful poor Ann Whitlock will be ! Heaven bless 
you, my dear ! How like you this is !” exclaimed 
Susan, fervently. 

“ The boy will take it down to the boat for you.” 

“ Much obliged, my dear lady, but I am a deal better 
able to carry it than the boy, and with your good leave 
I will do it,” said John. 

“ As you please, Mr. Palmer.” 

“Good-by, my dear Miss Emolyn. May you be very 
happy for all the rest of your life ! Oh ! for years and 
years after we lost sight of you, my prayers went up 
day and night that I might see you once more before I 
died, until at last we all give you up for dead ; th$n I 
stopped praying for you. But now, Miss Emolyn, that 
I have the joy of seeing you again, I shall pray day 
and night to the Lord to bless you, and to make you 
happy !” 

“ Yes, pray for me, dear good woman. Oh, how I 
need your prayers !” 

“Good-by, dear lady. I feel that you will be happy 
some of these days. Unhappiness cannot last forever 
in any one experience. There must be change. ‘ Sich 
is life,’ ” said John, as he shook hands with his gracious 
hostess. 


26 o 


Em's Husband. 


Em. approached also to take leave ; but the lady 
drew the girl to her bosom and kissed her fondly, 
saying : 

“ You must persuade your parents to let you come to 
me, my darling. Strange, how near you feel to me; 
but perhaps that is my own egotism, because you bear 
my name and some striking resemblance to me.” 

“ I shall be sure to come back to you, dear lady. I 
never broke a promise in my life, and I promise to 
come back to you,” whispered Em. 

“ I shall rest on that promise. Now go ; your 
parents are waiting for you,” said Emolyn, as she 
pressed a kiss upon the girl’s brow and so dismissed her. 

Em. followed her father and mother as they left the 
house, John carrying the hamper of wine. 

“ I don’t see why you could not have given Miss 
Emolyn her answer about Em. at once. You needn’t 
have put on airs with that lady, John, talking about 
taking time for reflection, and all that — when you know 
very well that you intend to let her go,” said Susan, as 
the three walked rapidly toward the boat. 

“ Indeed, then, Susan, I am not sure that I shall let 
her go at all !” said John, very gravely. 

“ Oh, father /” exclaimed Em. in a voice of despair. 

“ I think it most likely I shall do so, though, my dear. 
So don’t be troubled. I think I shall let you go ; but 
there is nothing certain in this world ; and 1 must have 
some conversation with your mother first.” 

They walked so rapidly that they soon reached the 
landing. 

John Palmer hastened to place his wife and daughter 
in their seats and then to unmoor the boat and push 
it from the shore. 

Em. took the tiller and steered for the Wilderness 
landing, 


A Good Fairy. 


26 r 


John laid himself vigorously to both oars, and they 
sped swiftly on their way home. 

Susan talked incessantly on the way up the river, and 
the burden of her conversation was “ Miss Emolyn 
Wyndeworth,” and her strange and tragic story. 

“ The people about here call her Mrs. Lynn ! That’s 
their mistake, not Miss Emolyn ’s doings. But I always 
did call her Miss Emolyn, and I suppose I shall to the 
end of my days,” she said, among countless other obser- 
vations. 

John said but little in response, and Em. nothing. 
She was absorbed in her own reflections. 

The sun was low when they reached the Wilderness 
landing. 

“ It has taken us the whole day, after all ; but Lord 
knows, we needn’t regret it, after what we have seen,” 
said John Palmer, as he drew in his oars, laid one down 
in the bottom of the boat and using the other as a pole, 
pushed it up on the sands. 

“ No, indeed, we needn’t regret our visit, if only we 
find our poor, old, sick woman hasn’t suffered through 
our going,” added Susan, as she climbed upon the 
shore, followed by Em. 

Leaving the father to secure the boat, the mother 
and daughter walked rapidly up the weed-grown, leaf- 
strewn path that led through the autumn woods to the 
park gate. 

Here they were met by old ’Sias, whom they found 
standing, leaning over the bars, talking to his sister 
Sally. 

“ Dr. Willy waitin’ for you, up to de house, honey, 
and I jes run down here to de gate to see if you was 
coming,” said Sally, while ’Sias opened the gate to 
admit them. 


262 


Em! s Husband. 


“ Dr. Willet here again ! Is Ann Whitlock worse ?” 
inquired Susan, in alarm, as she entered the park. 

“ Laws, no, honey ; it is only his goodness to come 
ag’in. He’s a nice, quiet ge’man, honey, as ever I see 
in my life. I warrant you, now, he never does nuffin 
to nobody,” said Sally. 

“ And jes as ’tentive to ole Miss Whitlock ’s if 
she was a p’incess in her own palace, ’stead o’ being of 
a poor ’pendent hanging on to you. I ’clare I never see 
nuffin like it in all de days of my life, and dat’s a hun- 
dred and fifty years, more or less, honey, more or less,” 
solemnly exclaimed the old gate-keeper. 

“ Now go away from here, Jose//£/as Elphine ! Hun- 
dred and fifty years, indeed ! We is twin sisters, you 
and me ; and I know I ain’t no hund’ed and fifty year 
old, neither more nor less, I tell you all good,” 
indignantly protested Sally. 

“ Come, mother, let us go on to the house,” said Em., 
anxious to see her patient. 

“ Don’t run away, honey,” exclaimed Sally, mistaking 
the young girl’s motives. “ Don’t be feared of me. 
I don’t mean no harm. I never does nuffin to nobody, 
honey, only I 7nust chastise ’Sias for his braggin’ lies.” 

“ Come along with us, Aunt Sally, I want you,” said 
Susan, as she followed Em., who was walking rapidly 
up the grass-grown drive towards the house. 

The three were soon overtaken by the long strides of 
John Palmer, who came up with the hamper of cham- 
pagne on his shoulder. 

At the house-door they were met by Dr. Willet, who 
cordially shook hands with John and Susan, and patted 
Em. on the head in a fatherly fashion. 

“ I think the old woman is doing very well under 
the circumstances,” he said in answer to Susan’s in- 
quiry. 


A Good Fairy. 


263 


Then Mrs. Palmer spoke of the timely present 
of wine, made by the Lady of Edengarden, and asked 
the doctor if it might be freely given to the patient. 

“ Indeed, yes, it is what I should have ordered if 
I had dreamed of its being attainable here,” he replied. 

And then, resisting all kind invitations to re-enter the 
house, he mounted his horse, that stood waiting, bowed 
adieux, and rode away. 

John carried his hamper of wine into the kitchen, 
followed by Susan and Em. 

He put it down on the floor, opened it, and drew out 
a bottle. 

“ Here, Susan,” he said, “ take this right up to the old 
woman, and give her a drink at once.” 

“ Come, Em.,” said the good mother, hurrying from 
the room. 

They found Mrs. Whitlock conscious, though unable 
to speak. 

They gave her a large goblet full of the sparkling 
vrine, Em. holding her up while Susan placed the glass 
at her lips. 

Then they proceeded to arrange her bed and room, 
and to mend the fire, and make all comfortable. 

It was not until all the family had retired to bed, 
with the exception of the parents, that John and 
Susan discussed the subject of Em. ’s removal to Eden- 
garden. 

“ Now, you have a chance, John, I want you to tell 
me why you stood shilly-shallying, and hem-hawing 
about letting Em. go to that lady ?” said Susan, as they 
drew their chairs in to the fire. 

“ Well, you see, Susan, I like that lady, and pity her, 
and thank her, all in one ; and I would do a great deal 
for her — anything for her, but send our daughter to ' 
live with her unless — unless — Susan — well, unless you 


264 


Em's Husband ’ 


can insure me that she was as innocent as our girl her- 
self of all the wrong-doing — ” 

Poor John had meant to put his question as delicately, 
as mildly, and as gently as he could possibly do ; yet 
Susan flew at him before he could complete his 
sentence. 

“John Palmer, what do you mean ? Have you clean 
taken leave of your senses ? But men are such fools ! 
Innocent ? Miss Emolyn innocent ! Oh ! there is not 
a single speck on her soul’s white garments, man !” 

“ Now, don’t get excited, Susan, my dear. If you 
feel sure she was innocent, then we will let her have 
our girl. That was all I wanted to know,” said John 
deprecatingly. 

“ I know that she is as pure as an angel ! I would 
stake my salvation on her purity ! And, besides, John 
Palmer, didn’t you hear me yourself say, over and over 
again, how anxious I was to have Em. go ? Yes y you did. 
And now do you dare to suppose that I, her mother, 
would be less careful of my daughter than you, who 
are nothing but just her father ? I am astonished at 
you, John Palmer ! But, as I said before, men are such 
fools we can hardly hold ’em ’count for what they say 
and do, so women must be patient with ’em,” said 
Susan, rising to cover up the fire. 

“Nobody but ■ my wife never called me a fool; but 
‘sich is life,’” sighed John Palmer, as he relieved 
Susan of the shovel and covered up the fire himself. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

EM.’S NEW HOME. 

Oh, brightly is bedeck’d your bower, and gorgeously your 
halls ; 

Here treads the foot on springing buds, and there on velvet 
falls : 

The massive curtains’ graceful flow, the vase, the painting 
warm ; 

Those household echoes, mirrors bright, revealing the fair 
form ; 

Exotics that perfume the air with odors sweet and strange, 

And shells that far in foreign climes mid ocean wonders 
range, 

With countless gifts of taste and art, in classic beauty rife, 

Are laid upon your household shrine, and grace your daily life. 

Gilman. 

Tired as she was with her unusual exertions, before 
she slept that night Susan Palmer ran up the attic 
stairs to her daughter’s chamber to communicate the 
good news that was to make Em. so happy. 

The door was closed, but not locked, so she opened it 
and walked in. 

She found that Em. had gone to bed but not to sleep. 
She immediately sat down beside the bed, and in 
answer to the girl’s eager, questioning eyes, she said : 

“ Yes, my dear, your father has given his consent for 
you to go.” 

C265] 


266 


E ni . *s Husba n d. 


Em. started and threw her arms around her mother’s 
neck, exclaiming : 

“ Oh, how glad I am ! It was you, dear, I know it 
was, who got him to consent at last. But oh ! dear 
mother, you will not think I love you any the less 
because I want to go to that desolate Lady of Eden- 
garden, will you, mother dear ?” 

“ Nonsense, girl, of course not ! You’ll love us as 
much, and even more, when you get away from us, 
than you do now. Why, law ! when I was younger 
than you are now I was crazy to go out to service ; 
and when I did, I found' that I loved my home and my 
mother better than I had ever done before. I sha’n’t 
be jealous, Em.,” laughed Susan. 

“ I don’t know why I should want to go, either ; but 
that dear lady is so lonely, so desolate, my heart goes 
out to her, mother. Think of it, she has no family 
circle, no visitors, no society, no one but her colored 
servants !” 

“ It is her own choice, Em.; yet I do wonder at the 
shyness that makes her keep herself unknown even to 
old Commodore Bruce, who used to know her when she 
was a child, and who was just as fond of her as if she 
had been his own. I do wonder at that !” 

“Mother dear,” exclaimed Em., suddenly, “don’t you 
remember she said Dr. Willet had been to see her ?” 

“ Oh, yes. Dr. Willet was one of the oldest and best 
friends, and stood by her manfully in her worst 
troubles. But for a long time after she disappeared 
not even he knew what had become of her ; however, I 
dare say she notified him afterwards, although he never 
said anything about it, being bound over to secrecy, 
most likely.” 

“Well, but, mother dear, Dr. Willet is staying at 
Commodore Bruce’s and don’t you think he will tell 


Em's New Home. 


: 6 ; 


the old commodore, who has so long- mourned Emolyn 
as dead, that she is really alive and within his reach ?” 

“ Oh, no, no, Dr. Willet will never do so without the 
lady’s consent — never.” 

“ Oh, what a pity it is that she so secludes herself 
from all who would love her !” 

“Yes, it is, Em., a crying pity. If you should get 
any influence over her, Em., you must try to coax her 
out of all that.” 

“ Oh, I will, I will, dear mother. I will do all in my 
little power for that lady. It is so strange, but she 
feels inexpressibly near and dear to me,” said the girl, 
tenderly. 

“ I am glad to hear you say so, Em. And now, my 
dear, as you sat up all last night with Mrs. Whitlock, 
you must really go to sleep. Good-night, and God 
bless you, my dear,” said Susan Palmer, as she kissed 
her daughter and left the room. 

The next morning, true to his promise, John Palmer 
authorized Em. to write a note of acceptance to 
the Lady of Edengarden, and to send it by the old 
gate-keeper in his boat. 

Em. joyfully obeyed, and penned the grateful missive, 
inquiring at its close when the lady would like that she 
should come. 

Old ’Sias took charge of the note and started to 
deliver it. 

But the old man was feeble and slow at the oars, so 
that he took nearly the whole day to do his errand, and 
the family had finished supper, cleared up the kitchen, 
and gathered around the blazing wood fire, occupied 
with their evening work — the women and girls knitting 
and sewing, the men and boys mending harness, and 
carving out wooden bolts — when ’Sias walked in, bring- 
ing a letter, which he handed to Em. 


268 


E m. 's Husba u d. 


' 4 Did you see the lady ?'’ she eagerly inquired as she 
opened the note. 

“ No, honey, I didn’t see nobody but a mons’ous 
handsome, bright, ’latto ’oman. Handsome as a queen, 
honey — de Queen o’ Sheba in all her glory — which she 
tell me, honey, as her name was Mellow Ponies. ’Deed,- 
if I had cotch my eye on her fore I ebber seed Sereny 
— But ’tain’t no use talking ’bout dat now ! O’ny if the 
’Vine Marster was to ’flict me wid de loss ob Sereny — 
But all dat’s wanity and wexation of de sperrits,” con- 
cluded the old man, with a sigh. 

Meanwhile, Em. read her note, which she presently 
passed to her mother, saying : 

“ She wants me to come on Thursday, mother, and 
this is Tuesday evening, you know.” 

“ Well, my girl, that will give you a day to get ready, 
and I will help you,” answered Susan. Then, quickly 
turning to the old gate-keeper said : 

“ ’Sias, stop ! I want to send a message by you. 
Tell your wife, Sereny, that if she will come and sit up 
with our sick woman to-night she shall be well paid for 
it.” 

“ Berry well, ma’am, sartain. And dat will be a 
great deliverance for me of one night, anyhow !” 
exclaimed the old man, as he retreated. 

The following day was spent by the mother and all 
her daughters in looking over, doing up, and packing 
Em ’s simple wardrobe, ready for use in her new home. 

That night, being the last one previous to her depart- 
ure, Em. sat up with Ann Whitlock until near day, 
when she was relieved by Monica. 

It was a glorious autumn day, near the last of 
October, when Em. took leave of her mother and sisters 
to set out for her new home. 

“ Now, you know, dear mother, the lady said in her 


Em' s New Home. 


269 


note that she hoped you -would come and spend a day 
with us just as often as you could, the oftener the 
better,” said the girl, lovingly lingering over her leave- 
taking. 

“Yes, Em.,” replied Susan. 

“ Also she said, that whenever I should feel the least 
home-sick, I should come to you for a few days.” 

“Yes, Em.” 

“ And whenever you might feel like wanting me at 
home, you were to send for me and I should come.” 

“Yes, Em.” 

“ Then you won’t feel lonesome for me, mother, 
dear ?” 

“ No, you goose! There! don’t worry about me! 
You didn't make half so much fuss about leaving home 
when you went to The Breezes, though that was the 
very first time you ever left us ! There ! God bless 
you, my good child, good-by. I shall come to hear the 
blind preacher of the island Sunday, and then I shall 
see you and your sweet lady, too,” said Susan, pressing 
her daughter to her heart in a final embrace. 

Em. turned away, and, escorted by her father, walked 
quickly down the leaf-strewn road leading through the 
park. 

It was true ! Em. felt more disturbed at leaving 
home now on this second time than she had done on 
the first — even although now she was going to live with 
one to whom her affections were strangely and strongly 
attracted. It may have been that in the depths of her 
spirit she had unacknowledged previsions that this was , 
a final departure from her home, that never again \ 
would she re-enter her father’s house except as a visi- 
tor. 

John walked on silently for a while, but just before 


Em! s Husband. 


270 


they got to the park gate, where old ’Sias stood in 
attendance, he said : 

“ Em., my child, don’t forget us in your fine, new 
home.” 

“ Oh, dear, dear, good, best father, never, never, 
never ! How could you think I would ? No, I will 
write to you twice a week, at least, and send the letter 
by a special messenger, for I feel that my lady will 
indulge me in that !” 

“ No, Em., don’t you do it ! Don’t give so much 
extra trouble in a strange house. I am satisfied with 
what you say, my girl. I know you will not forget 
us !” 

By this time they had reached the gate, which ’Sias 
had set wide open for their egress. 

“ Good-by, Uncle ’Sias. You must sometimes get in 
your boat and come to see me in my new home,” said 
Em., holding out her hand. 

“Good-by, Miss Em. Surely I’ll come to see yo.u. 
Give my despectful compliments to Miss Mellow 
Ponies ! If ever de ’Vine Marster was to ’flict me wid 
de ’reavement ob Sereny — but dere ! I won’t say nuffin 
more ’bout dat. It’s permature !” added the old man, 
as he flourished his hat in a final adieu. 

The father and daughter walked down to the shore, 
where they found the two boys mounting guard over 
Em.’s trunk, which they had carefully brought down 
from the house and deposited in the boat, ready for 
transportation. 

Em. took leave of her brothers and seated herself in 
the boat. 

“ Get in, dad, and make yourself comfortable ; we’ll 
unchain her,” exclaimed Tom. 

Mr. Palmer followed this advice, and took up the 
oars, and as soon as the boat was free he pushed off. 


Em's New Home . 


271 


Em. steered. 

There was a strong current down the river, and they 
made very rapid progress, and soon touched the island 
strand. 

“ The lady will send two of her men-servants down 
for my trunk, father. We can safely leave it here in 
the meantime,” said Em., as she stepped upon the land. 

John nodded and joined her, and they walked 
together through the silver girdle, as the belt of maple 
trees was called, and thence through the acacia groves, 
and up the beautiful terraces to the summit of the 
island, ci*owned with its white palace. 

The Lady of Edengarden stood at the portal to 
receive her new inmate. She came down the steps, 
greeted John Palmer courteously, and then took Em. 
in her arms in a warm embrace, and kissed her on the 
forehead and lips. 

“ Don’t spoil my girl by petting and indulgence, 
ma’am,” said John Palmer, smiling. 

“ She cannot be spoiled. Nothing can spoil her,” 
said the lady earnestly. “ But now come in and rest 
and refresh yourself before returning, Mr. Palmer.” 

“ Thank you, ma’am, but I haven’t time,” replied 
John, with a bow ; and resisting all the lady’s entreaties, 
he took leave of her and of his daughter, and retraced 
his steps to the boat, followed by two boys whom 
Emolyn‘had sent to bring up her young companion’s 
trunk. 

“ Come on, my lads, you will have to step into the 
boat. There, each of you take hold of the handles at 
each end and lift it out. There ! All right. Now go 
on !” said John Palmer, cheerfully. 

And having seen the boys start with the trunk, he 
re-entered his boat and rowed rapidly for home, feeling 
content because Em. was happy. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

A FAIRY BOWER. 

Marble walled and crystal windowed, 

'Vailed with silken drapery, 

Dressed with ornaments of silver, 

Interlaid with gems and gold ; 

Filled with carvings from cathedrals, 

Rescued in the times of old ; 

Eloquent with books and pictures, 

All that luxury can afford ; 

Warm with statues, that Pygmalion 
Might have fashioned and adored, 

In the island’s groves and grottoes, 

Lovely are the light and gloom, 

Fountains sparkle in the grotto, 

And exotics breathe perfume. Mackay. 

“Come, my darling, I wish to show you something,” 
said the Lady of Edengarden, as she took the hand of 
Emolyn Palmer and led her out of the front door and 
down the marble steps to the first terrace, which was 
still green and fresh, though all around was touched 
with frost. Then she turned her around, and they 
stood facing the beautiful white palace, with its marble 
walls and crystal windows glistening in the morning 
sun like alabaster and rainbows. 

“ Look,” said the lady, pointing to one high, airy 

[272] 


A Fairy Bower. 


2 73 


white tower with many windows, whose summit seemed 
to be almost up among the clouds. 

“ Oh, I have often gazed at that tower, dear lady ! 
How elegant it is !” exclaimed Em. 

“ Look at the top,” said the lady. 

“ Oh, how lovely, with its crystal windows shaded 
with rose-colored silk, and opening upon marble bal- 
conies. It is like a chamber in Paradise surely. I have 
often gazed at it while on my solitary visits to the 
island, and thought it was too beautiful, aerial and ideal 
ever to be used, and often wondered if anyone ever 
lived in it ! The white tower is the most elegant part 
of the palace, and that aerial chamber in the clouds the 
most beautiful part of the tower !” 

“ It has never been occupied. It is' a virgin bower. 
But come in, and I will take you at once to your apart- 
ment,” murmured Emolyn, as she drew 7- her young com- 
panion’s arm within her own, and conducted her into 
the hall and up the fairy flight of stairs leading to the 
upper floors. 

“ I think I know your taste in lodgings. You have ‘ a 
cat-like love of garrets,’ ” said the .lady smiling. 

“ Oh, yes, indeed I have ; but I wonder how you know 
it, madam ?” exclaimed the girl, in open-eyed astonish- 
ment. 

“ I think I should have known it by intuition even if 
your mother had not told me, as she did,” said the lady, 
as she passed the second landing and led her companion 
still higher. 

They went up to the attic hall, with a floor inlaid of 
maple and black walnut ; with broad, stained glass 
windows at each end, which threw a cathedral light 
over all, and doors on each side, leading into closed 
rooms ; and, lastly, with one tall and narrow door in 
the corner, towards which the lady led her guest. 


Em's Husband. 


2 74 


They passed through it and up a narrow but very 
pretty flight of stairs that led them to an upper door, 
which the lady opened. 

Em. made an exclamation of surprise and delight. 

“ This is your apartment, my little love,” said Emo- 
lyn. 

The simple maiden gazed around her in a perfect 
ecstasy of admiration. 

The sudden transit from the staircase to this radiant 
scene was almost like the work of enchantment. 

Now I wish my readers to see this beautiful room, in 
their mind’s eyes, as clearly as I saw it. 

It was at the top of the highest tower of the Eden- 
garden Villa. It was a large, lofty, octagon-shaped 
room, whose eight sides were filled with high, broad 
mirrors and windows, alternating with each other, and 
all alike draped with rose-colored silk and white lace 
curtains, to give uniformity. The floor was covered 
with a carpet -which, from its hue and softness, seemed 
formed of blush roses and water lilies. Elegant cabinets, 
stands and tables of white satin-wood, inlaid with flow- 
ers formed of malachite, mother-of-pearl, coral and tur- 
quoise, stood near the silver-gilded pillars between the 
windows and the mirrors. 

Sofas, divans and luxurious chairs, of white satin- 
wood, upholstered in rose-colored velvet and white 
chenille fringe, sat about in convenient places, inviting 
repose. Statuettes of Parian marble, — miniature copies 
of the great masterpieces of sculpture, and vases of 
rare Sevres china, Bohemian glass, or alabaster, loaded 
with choice exotics, adorned the brackets which were 
attached around the walls. 

The ceiling was a cupola, painted in fresco, of opal- 
tinted clouds on a pale blue morning sky. But the cen- 
tral summit of this cupola was a sky-light composed of 


A Fairy Bower. 


275 


one solid sheet of thick, clear, plate-glass, through 
which the heavens could be seen by day or night. 

Em. gazed around on this fairy chamber, too much 
lost in admiration even to ask herself whether it were 
not too rare and costly, too dainty and delicate for daily 
use. 

“ This is your boudoir, my bird. It is the top-most 
room in the high tower. But this tower, as you may 
have observed from seeing it on the outside, is flanked 
by four turrets, each with its row of long, narrow win- 
dows. 

“ Oh, yes, madam, I have seen them all, and this 
chamber lifted up among the clouds, as it seemed to be.” 

“ Well, my dear, now look here. First, these four 
windows give you a wide view of the country towards 
the four points of the compass. Then these four 
mirrors between the windows are on hinges, and behind 
their silken curtains open into turret chambers belong- 
ing to your suit of apartments. See here !” she said, 
gently pushing one of the mirrors outward and reveal- 
ing an alcove of pure white silk and lace in which stood 
a fairy bed of soft white draperies. 

“ Oh, how lovely !” exclaimed the delighted girl. 

“ Now look here,” the lady said, opening a second 
mirror and revealing a dressing-room fitted with marble 
bath, basins, ewers, bureaus, presses, and all conveni- 
ences for the toilet. 

“ Here is everything that even a princess might 
desire !” exclaimed Em. 

“And here !” continued the lady, turning in a third 
mirror, showing a little room fitted up as an oratory, 
library, or study. 

The floor was covered with a carpet of shaded green, 
like forest leaves ; the walls were lined with white 
satin-wood shelves, filled with choice books ; in the 


276 


Em's Husband. 


middle .of the room stood an elegant rosewood writing- 
table, covered with a richly-embroidered green cloth. 
Near the table stood an ebony-backed reading-chair, 
cushioned with green and gold ; under the window, 
which was draped with green and gold fringe velvet, 
stood a lounge in the same colors. 

“ Oh, this is like the inside of an elegant casket !” 
exclaimed Em., with enthusiasm. 

“Yes, it is a casket, and there are the jewels,” said 
the lady, pointing to the books. “ And now let me 
show you the fourth turret room,” she continued, lead- 
ing Em. to the only remaining mirror. Turning it 
inward, she revealed the fairy-like, spiral staircase by 
which they had ascended to this floor, and by which 
she now proposed that they should mount still higher 
to the observatory. 

Em. followed her conductress up an aerial flight of 
steps and through a stained glass window, which the 
lady slid aside, and thence out upon the top of the 
tower. 

It was round. The centre was formed of the clear 
glass crystal that gave light to the chamber below. 
Around this crystal was a slender ring of white marble 
balustrades ; around that, a marble walk ; outside the 
walk a row of white benches, and around the edge of 
the tower, a circular colonnade so massive as to ensure 
the safety even of a sleep-walker, if such should venture 
upon the giddy height. 

But the grand view, north, east, south, west, from 
that high and central point ! There was the island 
immediately beneath, with its lovely grounds ; the river 
all around ; the wooded banks ; the distant mountains ! 

“ Em.,” exclaimed Mrs. Lynn, “ you can see The 
Breezes, Commodore Bruce’s place, and the Wilderness 


A Fairy Bozver . 


2 77 


Manor-house, and even the spire of Gray Rock church 
from this point.” 

“ Oh, it is grand ! It is glorious !” exclaimed Em. in 
delight. 

“ When you wish to leave the world far below you, 
you can come up here to meditate, read, sew, sketch, 
dream, do as you please.” 

“ It is like a place in a vision !” murmured Em. 

“ And now, dear, we will go down,” said Mrs. Lynn, 
leading the way. 

When they had reached the beautiful octagon cham- 
ber, Em. said : 

“ The season is late autumn, and the weather seems 
cold outside, yet the temperature in here is that of 
summer, although I see no means of heating this 
charming place.” 

“ Do you not ?” inquired the lady, smiling. 

“ No, indeed.” 

“ What do you take this to be ?” she asked, pointing 
to a piece of furniture that looked like a large pedestal 
and vase of alabaster and Bohemian glass, and stood 
near the centre of the room. 

“ That? Why, an elegant flower-stand, to be sure !” 
said Em., wondering. 

“ Why, so it is in summer ; but in autumn and winter 
we put it to a different use. Lay your hand on it — 
lightly, Em.” 

The girl placed her hand on the pedestal and quickly 
withdrew it, exclaiming : 

“ It is hot !” 

“ Yes, and it heats the room. It is one of those por- 
celain stoves, such as those with which the Russian pal- 
aces are partly heated. And see, dear, the vase on top 
is kept full of rose-water, which diffuses both moisture 
and perfume throughout the atmosphere.” 


278 


Em.'s Husband. 


“ Oh, how perfect ! I could not have conceived of a 
place, so perfect, if indeed it is not all a dream!” 
breathed Em. 

“ And now, love, I will leave you to make your toilet 
for dinner. There, in those drawers and wardrobes of 
your dressing-room, you will find an outfit, such as I 
wish you to wear. Youth should always dress in white, 
while in the house, Em. At least I think so, even at 
this time of the year. And you may do so with impun- 
ity, for, as you say, although the season is autumn, the 
atmosphere is summer. It is always summer at Eden- 
garden,” the lady added, with a smile, as she pressed a 
kiss upon the lips of Em. and left the room. 

Em. stood for a moment looking about herself, still 
dazzled and bewildered by the novelty and beauty 
of her surroundings, and then, child-like, she went 
to each rose-silk and lace-draped window and in turn 
opened it and stepped out upon the marble balcony. 
There were four of these, be it remembered, each afford- 
ing strict privacy and commanding a magnificent view. 
While she was still standing on the balcony outside of 
the east window, she was startled by a voice in the 
room, calling out : 

“ Miss Em ! Where is yer, honey ? Come out here, . 
honey.” 

“ I am ‘out here,’ Pony,” laughed the girl, “ but I will 
step in, if you want me.” 

“ Oh, I t’ought you was in your bedroom, may be. 
My mist’ess has sent me up here to help yer to dress, 
chile.” 

“ Thank you, aunty,” said Em., as she came into the 
room. 

Pony herself went into the dressing-closet and began 
to overhaul the fresh wardrobe, saying : 

“There’s your nice gauze flannels in this bottom 


A Fairy Bower. 


2 79 


drawer, honey, and yer cambric skirts in this, and yer 
dresses in the wardrobe, and yer — ” 

“Pony,” interrupted Em., “I have not known your 
dear and lovely mistress for a week, and here she has a 
complete outfit for me. How on earth could she have 
got it ?” 

“ Oh, chile, may be she may tell you herself some o’ 
dese days. / ain’t at liberty to explain, Miss Em. 
Only this I’ll say, dat dis wardrobe wasn’t got for you , 
nor was dese rooms prepared for you, nor was — ” 

“ For whom, then, were the rooms fitted up, and the 
wardrobe selected ?” inquired the wondering girl. 

“ I can’t tell you, Miss Em. It ain’t my secret, but de 
madam’s. ’Haps, as she has taken sich a fancy to yon, 
she may tell you herself.” 

Em. looked so puzzled, and even distressed, that Pony 
hastened to say : 

“ But you have got the beautiful rooms, and the beau- 
tiful dresses all to yourself now, honey, with no one to 
dispute them with you.” 

“ I am afraid, though, that my gain is somebody 
else’s — ” 

“ No, indeed, Miss Em.! There you are very much 
mistaken, for I can tell you this much — ” eagerly in- 
terrupted the woman ; and then she suddenly paused. 

Em. waited for her to go on, grew impatient, and then 
demanded : 

“ What, Pony ?” 

1 “ These beautiful rooms and most beautiful rai??ient was 
never designed for no mortal girl /’ ’ 

“ Pony ! What do you mean ?” breathlessly ex- 
claimed Em., as a mental vision of the radiant White 
Lady of the Wilderness Manor-hall sent an electric 
thrill through her veins. 

“ I daren’t tell you, honey, what I mean. ’Haps shell 


Em . ’s H tisba n d. 


280 


tell yon some ob dese days, since she’s took sich a liking 
to you, which I hope’s, honey, you’ll be a blessing to her 
and win her away from de solitary life as 1 think has all 
but turned her brain. I has hopes of you, honey, cause 
I you’s de berry first person she has ever bided to make 
a companion of for dese seventeen years or more. 
Your folks is de berry first people in all dese many 
days as she has ever ’vited to her house.” 

“ Oh, how lonely must such a life have been !” sighed 
the girl. 

“ Yes, honey, but it was her own choosing. Why, dere 
was even Dr. Willet, her ’ticklerest old friend ! When 
he come here t’other day, she seed him, to be sure, but 
she didn’t ax him to stay to dinner !” 

“ Oh, I am so glad she let me come !” said Em. 

“ Yes, so am I. My hopes is all in you, Miss Em. 
My hopes for my dear mist’ess is all in you ! Why, 
honey, she is so young to shet herself up from deciety ! 
She ain’t more’n thirty-two years old, and she don’t 
look nigh that even. She don’t look so much older’n 
? you do, Miss Em. And if she would go out, she might 
marry happy ! She might indeed, for dere’s many and 
many an unmarried single young lady of her age what 
passes theirselves off. well for a miss in her teens ! And 
nobody know to de contrary !” 

“ Oh, if I could only do anything to make her happy ! 
To make her forget the past, whatever it is 1 To win 
her back to her fellow-beings !” sighed Em., clasping 
her hands prayerfully. 

“ I ’pends on you for to do dat, Miss Em. And now, 
my honey-bee, come dress yerself as pretty as ever you 
can, for my lady loves to look at pretty things. So 
dress yerself pretty, Miss Em.” 

“ In the ghost’s clothes ?” inquired Em., half jestingly, 
half shudderingly. 


A Fairy Bower. 


281 


“ No, honey, not de ghost’s ! Don’t be afeard — deie’s 
no ghost. In de angels clothes, more like.” 

“ Whatever do you mean, Pony ?” 

“ I daren’t say no more’n dis, honey — what I said 
afore— as dese things, dese lovely rooms and lovely rai- 
ments, was never prepared for you, nor for no mortal lady , 
dough you has got dem now ! So, my honey, don’t ax 
me no more questions, ’cause 3'ou wouldn’t have me 
’tray my mist’ess’ trust, would you ?” seriously inquired 
Pony. 

“Oh, no, no, no !” earnestly exclaimed Em., who had 
not considered the subject in that light before. 

“ Well, den, honey, don't ax me no more questions 
on dat subject, ’cause talking is my weakness, any- 
how ; but come, now, and dress yerself pretty as a 
fairy, to go down and sit wid my mist’ess.” 

Em. looked over her simple and elegant wardrobe, 
and selected a costume of embroidered white India 
muslin, lightly trimmed with pale blue ribbons. 

When she was ready she followed Pony down to the 
presence of her mistress, whom she found in a little 
boudoir connected with the long saloon on one end, 
and a small, elegant dining-room on the other. 

The lady had changed her own dress, and wore a 
silver gray silk with point lace falls, and no jewelry. 

“ We dine early here, my dear girl,” said Mrs. 
Lynn, as she touched the bell. 

No one answered it, for the signal at that hour was 
understood, and in about five minutes dinner was 
announced. 

No more need be said of this, than that it was a 
dainty little dinner for two, elegantly served in the 
small but sumptuous dining-room. 

After dinner Mrs. Lynn took Emolyn into the library 


282 


Em's Husband. 


where they spent a few pleasant hours, seated in luxuri- 
ous chairs at a table covered with books of engravings 
after the old masters. 

When tired of this amusement, at the lady’s sugges- 
tion, they drew their chairs to the fire and fell into a 
confidential chat. 

The lady drew Em. out to speak of her childhood, of 
Laundress lane, of her journey to the mountains, and 
of her first impressions of the new home. 

In the course of her narrative Em. spoke of the 
radiant vision she had seen in the moonlit hall on the 
first night of her stay at the old Manor-house. 

“ Life is full of mysteries, ’’muttered the lady, thought- 
fully — then, seeing Em. watching breathlessly, she 
added — But your vision was probably a dream, in- 
spired by the stories you had heard about the so-called 
‘ haunted hall.’ ” 

“ But I never heard any stories, dear lady. To be 
sure, old ’Sias, the gate-keeper, startled mother by hint- 
ing that no one who knew the house could be induced 
to go into it. But he absolutely refused to explain his 
words, so we heard no story,” said Em. 

“What? Why should you have dreamed of the 
bride’s ghost if you never had heard the story ?” 

“ Dear lady, I did not dream. I saw the radiant 
spirit.” 

“ You think you did, my dear, at all events, and it is 
very strange that your dream should have corresponded 
so well with the legend you never heard.” 

“ No, but please tell it to me, dear lady,” said Em., 
who had all a child’s eagerness to hear a story. 

“ It is very old ; but one of my remote ancestors was 
a terrible domestic tyrant, and had, among many sons, 
only one beautiful daughter. She loved a poor young 
man, but was ordered by her father to marry an old 


A Fairy Bower. 


283 


one. Parents did not trifle in those days. Ethelinde 
was to be forced to obey. She was locked in her room 
and guarded till the wedding night. 

“ The time came. The guests were assembled, the 
feast was spread. The bridegroom and his attendants 
waited in the hall ; the bishop and the rector were 
ready in the drawing-room. The bride was dressed in 
splendid bridal array ; but every one noticed how pale 
she looked even to her lips. 

“ At length the summons came, and she went down, 
followed by her bride’s-maids. 

“ From the lower end of the hall her aged bridegroom 
came to meet her. He was bowing and smiling, and 
holding out his hand. 

“ But as he touched her she fell at his feet — DEAD ! 

“The overtaxed heart had broken. There, those are 
the facts, Em.! The fiction is that on every anniver- 
sary of that fatal day the bride goes through her death 
march again, sometimes followed by a faithful attendant , 
sometimes alone. You must have heard the story and 
forgotten it, else why should you have dreamed the 
dream ?” 

“ It was no dream, dear lady. Yours is a veritable 
ghost story, and I have seen a veritable ghost,” said 
Em. in a voice of awe. 

“ Come, let us go to bed and sleep off such morbid 
fancies,” said Mrs. Lynn, as she arose and rang for bed- 
room lights. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

EM.’S DAYS AT EDENGARDEN. 

Within the island’s calm retreat 
She leads a sort of fairy life, 

Careless of victory or defeat, 

In the world’s ceaseless toil and strife. 

Anon. 

Our little heroine’s life in Edengarden seemed to her 
something like that of a princess in fairyland. 

She lived in ease and luxury, surrounded by beauty 
and splendor. 

No services were required from her. 

The lady of Edengarden made out for her the pro- 
gramme of a course of reading which she recommended 
the girl to pursue, and Em. gratefully and gladly 
devoted a few hours of every morning to these studies. 
Mrs. Lynn also instructed her chosen pupil in the French 
and German languages, and in vocal and instrumental 
music, and in sketching and embroidery. 

Em. was very happy, or she would have been but for 
one tormenting thought which presented itself again 
and again — the thought that she herself was making no 
sort of return for all these benefits — no, nor doing any 
useful thing, as far as she could see, for any human 
being. 

This thought sometimes made Em. so unhappy that, 
at length, she felt forced to speak of it to her benefac- 
[284] 


Em's Days at Edengarden . 


285 


tress. She watched for an opportunity to do so, and it 
came at length. 

She was sitting with Mrs. Lynn in the boudoir of the 
latter, and engaged on a beautiful piece of satin embroi- 
dery, mere useless “ fancy ” work, such as Em., in her 
practical life, had never “ fancied.” 

“ You look very thoughtful, my child. Are you home- 
sick, Em. ?” inquired the lady. 

“Oh, no, dear madam, no!” earnestly replied the 
girl. 

“ What is the matter then, my love ! Do you not 
enjoy yourself here ?” 

“ Yes, dear lady, but — ” 

“ But what ?” 

“ I am not doing any service for you in return for all 
the great benefits you lavish on me. I am not doing 
anything for anybody in the world, and — ” 

“ Well, Em. ?” 

“ Well, dear lady, I feel as if I were doing wrong. I 
have been taught that life was not given us for mere 
selfish enjoyment, and I have been trained to a busy 
and active life.” 

“ And you think that you are doing no good here ?” 

“ I am living a life of self-indulgence, dear lady.” 

“ Instead of the life of self-devotion that you have 
been used to, I suppose. Now listen to me, dear girl, 
and I will show you how mistaken you are. When I 
fii;st saw you, child, I was drawn to you as you admit 
that you were to me. In my seventeen years of utter 
isolation from all society I have never met anyone to 
whom my heart went out as it did to you. In the short 
time I have known you, my child, I have learned to love 
you more and more. I keep you near me. I direct 
your education. It is a happiness to me to do this,” 

“ But I do nothing for you, dear lady,” 


286 


Em!s Husband. 


“Yes, you heal me, child. You heal 7ne of a long> long 
heart-sickness.” 

“ Oh, madam, if I could think myself so privi- 
leged, so honored and blessed as to be able to do that, I 
should indeed feel that my life were well spent !” 
exclaimed the girl with enthusiasm. 

“ Then content yourself, my child, for I have told you 
the truth. It can be summed up in two words — I teach 
you. You heal me.” 

And indeed it was so. The lady was educating the 
girl and the girl was drawing the recluse out of herself, 
out of her morbid thoughts, out of her solitary life. 

A proof of this soon occurred. 

Dr. Willet came to the island. The recluse Lady of 
Edengarden not only received him, as indeed she did 
on his first visit, but also pressed him to stay and dine. 

The good doctor did not need much persuasion. He 
readily consented to remain. He brought Em. news of 
her father’s family, who were all well with the exception 
of Ann Whitlock, whom he reported to be very much 
in the same condition in which Em. had left her. 

It was in the afternoon of that day when Em. having 
left the room for a few moments, and Dr. Willet find- 
ing himself alone with his hostess, said : 

“ That little girl is doing you good.” 

“Yes, she is a healing angel to me,” answered the 
lady. 

“ Well, now, let me tell you one thing. It is from no 
peculiar merit m the girl, although she is a good child. 
It is only because she is not yourself. She is some- 
body outside of yourself. She is company, in fact. 
That is the reason why she has done you good. Now, 
dear friend, let me assure you, that the more company 
you see, within certain limits, the more good you will 
receive,” said the doctor. 


Em's Days at Edengarden, 


287 


The lady did not reply. The doctor, encouraged by 
her silent toleration of his argument, continued : 

“ There is your old friend and neighbor, Commodore 
Bruce, with whom you know I am staying. How 
rejoiced he would be to hear news of you. He has 
never ceased to mourn you as dead, Emolyn Wynde- 
worth ! Let me tell him , at least, that you live and are 
well and near him.” 

“Oh, no, no, no !” exclaimed the Lady of Eden- 
garden, suddenly and vehemently — “ if you wish to 
break up my home here, and send me forth again a 
wanderer and a vagabond on the face of the earth, you 
will betray my secret to him of all men !” 

“ My dear lady, say no more ! say no more ! Your 
secret is as safe with me as with the dead !” hastily 
answered the doctor. 

The return of Em. put an end to the conversation, 
and Dr. Willet soon after took his leave. 

In the course of the same week Susan Palmer came 
to see her daughter, and at Mrs. Lynn’s cordial invita- 
tion spent the day. 

On bidding good-by to the lady, she said : 

“ I fear, dear madam, as you are a sp’iling that girl 
for a poor man’s wife, with all the luxuries and ele- 
gancies as you are a pampering her up with.” 

“ Do not fear. If nature has not, from her begin- 
ning, spoiled her for a poor man’s helpmate, education, 
at this late day, cannot do it. Besides, Susan Palmer, 
why should she ever be a poor man’s wife ?” inquired 
the lady. 

This question arrested Susan’s attention at once. 
Though in the act of departure, she paused, turned 
around and exclaimed : 

“ Oh ! now I suppose Em. has been telling you about 
her wealthy lover !” 


288 


Em!s Hit stand. 


“ Her ‘ wealthy lover ?’ Indeed not,” replied the 
lady, with an anxious glance towards Em., who blushed 
to the edges of her hair. 

“Well, then, she will tell you, ma’am, for I haven’t 
got time ! Em., tell the lady all about it, and she will 
be able to advise you just as well as anybody in this 
world ! Tell her all, Em., and don’t blush up so, my 
girl ! You behaved well in that business, child, and 
haven’t got nothing to blush for !” said Susan Palmer, 
proudly. And then, having kissed her daughter and 
shaken hands with her benefactress, Susan went down 
to the beach to be rowed home by old ’Sias. 

The Lady of Edengarden made it a matter of con- 
science to speak to her young protegee on the subject 
suggested by Mrs. Palmer. She understood well, also, 
how to prepare for such a confidential conversation. 

There was one room, the most plainly furnished in 
the Villa of Edengarden, which was the favorite even- 
ing resort of Mrs. Lynn and her young companion, 
because it was warmed by an old-fashioued open wood 
fire. 

In this room Em. and her patroness sat in the even- 
ing after the departure of Susan Palmer. 

Pony came in to light the lamps. 

“ No, don’t do that yet awhile. We will sit in the 
fire-light,” said Mrs. Lynn. 

“ It is cosy like, too,” Pony admitted, as she retired. 

“Draw your chair up to the fire, Em., put your feet 
on the fender ; and now, love, tell me who is this 
wealthy lover of yours of whom your mother spoke ?” 
softly inquired Mrs. Lynn, when they were left alone 
in the ruddy glow of the smouldering red hickory fire. 

“ He is Lieutenant Ronald Bruce, the nephew and 
heir of Commodore Bruce, of The Breezes,” answered 
Em., in a low and tremulous tone, feeling well pleased 


Em's Days at Edengarden . 289 


that her face was but dimly visible in the glowing* 
gloom of the firelight. 

“ ‘ Bruce !’ That name again,” murmured the lady, 
thoughtfully. Then after a meditative pause, she said : 
“ My dear girl, if you feel that you can confide in me, 
tell me all about it.” 

Thus appealed to, Em. would have told her little love 
story to her friend, cost what it might to her own feel- 
ings. 

It was not hard for her to tell it there. She drew 
her low chair closer to the lady’s side, and with her 
head on the lady’s lap, she related the circumstances of 
her first meeting with Ronald Bruce, when he had 
saved her from falling under the uplifted club of an 
intoxicated and infuriated ruffian. How their acquaint- 
ance progressed. How he had been her disinterested 
friend, and had tried to improve her condition even 
before he had declared himself to be her lover. How 
he had procured her first the offer of a situation of 
nursery governess in his sister’s family, which she had 
refused for her father’s sake. How afterwards, when 
her family had come to Virginia, he had managed so 
that his mother had offered her a situation as seam- 
stress at The Breezes. How Commodore Bruce had 
faken a fancy to her himself, and when she was capri- 
ciously discharged from his sister-in-law’s service had 
engaged her as his reader, which post she had filled to 
his satisfaction until^ his nephew, Lieutenant Ronald 
Bruce, had confessed his attachment to her, and 
announced his intention of marriage. 

“ That was noble and upright in the young man. 
What followed ?” inquired Mrs. Lynn, as Em. faltered 
and paused in her narrative. 

“ Commodore Bruce summoned his nephew to his 


2 go 


Em's Husband ’ 


presence and threatened to disinherit him unless he 
gave me up.” 

“ What next, my dear ? Speak on. Speak low, if you 
like, but do not be afraid. What did the young man 
say or do ?” 

“ Ronald declined to give me up, and accepted disin- 
heritance as a consequence.” 

“ That was right. And then ? What then ? Com- 
pose yourself, my child, and speak on.” 

“ Then,” continued Em., in a low and faltering voice, 
that seemed as if it would break down at every syllable 
“ — then Commodore Bruce sent for me and told me all 
that he had told him — Ronald — and threw himself on 
what he was so polite as to call my honor, and asked me 
to reject Ronald for Ronald’s own sake.” 

“And you, darling, you, what did you do ?” 

“ I — rejected — him — and went home — with my father,” 
said Em., utterly breaking down. 

“ Do not weep so bitterly, my love. This lover — he 
never acted on your forced rejection, Em. ?” tenderly 
inquired the lady. 

“ No — no ! He would not listen to it. He said he 
was of age, and no one had the right to control him in 
a matter so near his heart,” continued Em., recovering 
something of her self-possession. 

“ Go on, dear.” 

“ He appealed to my father ; but my dear father was 
prouder in his way than Commodore Bruce himself. 
He refused me to Ronald. He said that no daughter of 
his should ever enter any family who would not be as 
glad to receive her as ever he could be to give her. 
And that Lieutenant Bruce must never come again 
until he came authorized by Commodore Bruce co ask 
my hand.” 

“ And so,” said the lady, “ between these two stiff- 


Em's Days at Edengarden . 


291 


necked old men — the haughty old commodore and the 
arrogant overseer — you are to be sacrificed ! For, I 
suppose, as a dutiful child, you will abide by your 
father’s decision.” 

“Oh, yes, madam, for I promised my dear father 
never to marry without his consent, and I know he will 
never consent to my marriage with Ronald,” said Em., 
almost on the verge of breaking down again, but she 
succeeded in controlling herself. 

“ So, finally, all depends upon the will of Commodore 
Bruce ?” 

“ Yes, madam.” 

“ But, again, the young man— has he accepted this 
decision of your father ?” 

“ No, indeed, madam, no more than he accepted that 
of his uncle or mine ! He says he will never give 
me up !” 

“ He is right. Commodore Bruce must be brought 
to terms. Do not misunderstand me, however, my 
dear. I strongly disapprove of young people taking 
the law into their own hands in this respect, and marry- 
ing against the wishes of their parents. But Ronald’s 
case is an exceptional one. Commodore Bruce is not his 
father, nor his guardian, and has no right to dictate to 
him, a man of twenty-five, on the subject of his mar- 
riage, nor has he the moral right to bribe him by a rich 
inheritance to give up his true and honest love. With 
your father’s feeling on the subject I can better sym- 
pathize. I, too, if I were so blessed as to have a daugh- 
ter, would object to her entering even a royal family 
by marriage, if they were not as proud to receive her 
as I to bestow her. Yes, I understand and appreciate 
your father’s motives. It is the old commodore who 
must be set right. Now cheer up, my darling. I will 
be the fairy godmother who shall bring the prince back 


292 


Em.'s Husband. 


\ to your feet,” said the lady, pressing a kiss upon her 
brow. 

Em. looked up — gratefully, doubtfully ; for how, she 
asked herself, could this lady, with all her great power 
and good will, influence Commodore Bruce to put away 
those strong prejudices of caste which formed a part of 
his very being ? 

The Lady of Edengarden, watching her expressive 
face, read her thoughts and answered them, as if they 
had been spoken. 

“ Commodore Bruce knew me and loved me from my 
i childhood up to the time I was about sixteen years of age. 
I have not seen him since. The trial that blighted my 
life has prevented me — But I cannot speak of that! 
He believes me dead ! But for your sake, my darling, 
I will burst the bonds that hold me. I will break the 
j silence of years. I will- go to Commodore Bruce in 
person, and I know I have the talisman which shall 
) bring him to favorable terms. Cheer up, Em. ! All 
i will be well.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A VISIT TO THE BREEZES. 

Sunrise will come next ! 

The shadow of the night is passed away ! 

Browning. 

“Yes,” said the Lady of Edengarden to herself, on 
the morning after her eventful conversation with Em., 
and while she and her young companion sat together 
in the blue parlor, engaged with their embroidery— 
‘ yes, though I have never left this island except 


A Visit to The Breezes. 


293 


to leave the country, I will try to break the strong 
spell that has bound me, and to cast off the dark night- 
mare that has oppressed me for years, and, for the sake 
of this gentle child, and of one who bears the name and 
likeness of him I loved and lost, I will seek the presence 
of the man whom I most dreaded to meet in this 
world.” 

All who ever knew Emolyn Wynde worth knew that 
she was sensitive, timid, and retiring in the extreme. 
To these weaknesses she owed all her misfortunes. To 
these she had so succumbed as to have died a moral 
and social death daily for the last seventeen years. 

It required, therefore, a heroic effort in her to form 
this resolution. It would require on almost superhu- 
man one to carry it into effect. 

While she was still trying to 

“ Screw ‘ her ’ courage to the sticking place,” 

for an interview with Commodore Bruce, two cards 
were brought in by her page and placed in her hands. 

“ 4 Dr. Willet,’ ‘ Lieutenant Bruce,’ ” she read aloud. 

Em. looked up suddenly, too much frightened to 
blush. She expected to see a frown of anger at this 
intrusion on the face of her who had worn nothing but 
smiles for her protegee. 

But no ! that very grave face had not the slightest 
trace of displeasure on it. 

“ Where have you left these gentlemen ?” she in- 
quired of her page. 

“ In the small white saloon, madam.” 

“ I will see them there. Go and say so.” 

The page left the room and the lady turned to Emo- 
lyn, whose color was rolling over her face like rose- 
leaves before a breeze. 


2 9 4 


Em's Husband. 


“You are afraid I am not going to let you see your 
lover ? Do not fear that, my child ; I shall send him in 
to you. I have something to say to Dr. Willet,” said 
the lady, as she stooped and left a kiss on the brow of 
the girl and passed from the room. 

In the small white saloon — which was a sort of ante- 
room to the large white saloon — the hostess found Dr. 
Willet and Lieutenant Bruce. 

The former arose and advanced towards her with 
outstretched hands and deprecating smile, saying : 

“ I have to beg your pardon for what I fear you will 
consider an unpardonable liberty ; but my young friend 
here — Allow me to present Lieutenant Bruce — ” 

Here the young officer approached and bowed rever- 
entially, and the lady smiled on him and offered her 
hand, saying : 

“ I have heard of Lieutenant Bruce, from a young 
lady who is staying with me, and I am very happy to 
make him welcome to Edengarden.” 

The young officer bowed again and lifted the hand of 
the lady to his lips. 

“ So ! the great gun is fired, and nobody killed or 
desperately wounded,” muttered the doctor to himself ; 
then aloud : “ My young friend here, as I was about to 

say, asked me to introduce him to you, madam, and, in 
fact, would take no denial.” 

“ I am very glad to see him,” repeated the lady. 

“ He had, in fact, a small parcel belonging to your 
young protegee, which he did not care to trust to an 
ordinary messenger, and which I, for reasons, did not 
volunteer to bring myself,” added the doctor with a 
merry look. 

“ And, perhaps, for the same cause, you would prefer 
to deliver your parcel in person, Mr. Bruce,” suggested 
the lady, with a smile. 


A Visit to The Breezes. 


295 


“ ^ you please, madam,” replied the young gentle- 
man, with a bow, expecting that his hostess would then 
send for her little companion. 

In fact the lady touched the bell, and brought her 
young page to her presence. 

“ Show this gentleman to the blue parlor,” she said 
to the boy. “ You will find Miss Palmer there,” she 
ad'ded, to the man. 

Ronald Bruce arose, turned a grateful look upon the 
lady, and followed the page. 

“ I perceive that you have divined this pretty little 
love idyl, and do not disapprove it,” said Dr. Willet, as 
soon as he was left alone with the Lady of Edengarden. 

“ I was about to make the very same observation to 
you. No, indeed, I do not disapprove of it. On the 
contrary, I wish to do everything I can to forward it. 
Dr. Willet !” 

“ Well, my dear ?” 

“ I am going to match-making.” 

“ You, my child ?” 

“ Yes. From what I have understood, her want of 
fortune is the only objection the lover’s friends have to 
his chosen bride — the only objection they can have — for 
the girl is beautiful, intellectual, graceful, amiable, 
fairly educated, lady-like, and young enough to improve 
in all these things.” 

“ But her want of fortune, my dear lady — ” 

“ I can supply. I have ample means and no children, 
no, nor even near relations in this world. I have fallen 
Jin love with this little girl ! You smile, but, indeed, 
that is the only way in which I can express my sudden 
[and increasing affection for little Emolyn Palmer. I 
■will endow her richly on her marriage, and make her 
my heiress at my death. You smile again.” 

“ I am thinking, dear lady, that you and your prote- 


296 


Em's Husband. 


gee seem to be so nearly of an age, that, to use a homely 
proverb, ‘When one dies of old age, the other may 
quake for fear !” . 

“ There is sixteen years difference between our ages, 
Doctor.” 

“ Indeed ! But, yes, of course, when I come to 
remember, I know there must be. And you will really 
endow this child ?” 

“ Yes, Dr. Willet, and — ” 

“ Well, my dear ?” 

“ I wish to see Commodore Bruce myself, on this 
subject.” 

“ You do ! Oh, I am delighted to hear you say that 
you will see him on any subject ! He will be so rejoiced 
to know that you live, that I believe it will add years to 
his own lease of life.” 

“That is very pleasant to hear. Yet I do not see 
why the aged commodore should take such a great 
interest in me ! Why, indeed, he should take any 
interest now,” said the lady, thoughtfully. 

“ I think it is from a morbid compunction — almost 
remorse.” 

“ ‘ Remorse ?’ ” 

“ Yes, Emolyn ! For on the last night before his son 
Leonidas embarked on that fatal voyage from which 
he never returned, the boy, moved by some prophetic 
spirit, implored his father to watch over you — his own 
life-long playmate and companion. The father gave 
less heed to this parting prayer than he afterwards had 
reason to suppose he should have done ; and he has 
fostered a morbid remorse of which he has only very 
lately made me the confidant. He will be so glad to 
know that you still live, dear Emolyn, that he will be 
likely to yield to any wish of yours, even to the consent- 


A Visit to The Breezes. 


297 


ing that his nephew and heir shall marry the overseer’s 
daughter.” 

“ Heaven grant it,” she breathed in tones so low, so 
full of controlled emotion, that the doctor turned and 
regarded her with surprise. He could not know the 
depths of bitter memory in her bosom that had been 
stirred by the name of Leonidas Bruce. 

“ You take this girl’s interests very deeply to heart. 
No doubt you will be able to influence the old com- 
modore in their favor. Shall I bring him here to see 
you to-morrow ?” he inquired. 

“ No, no, for he is aged, and, as I have heard from 
Emolyn Palmer, unwilling ever to stir from his home. 
No ; but I will ask you, Dr. Willet, to take me to see 
him. Will you do so ?” 

“ Most willingly, my dear young friend. When 
shall I have the pleasure ? To-morrow ? Next day ? 
When ?” 

“ Can I not go to-day ? Accompany you when you 
return ?” inquired the lady. 

“ Assuredly you can, if you wish ! I shall be very 
happy to have you. Young Bruce and I rowed our- 
selves here, and we shall be very glad to row you back 
with us.” 

“ How soon do you return ? Do not think me inhos- 
pitable ; for I know, of course, by your bringing Lieu- 
tenant Bruce, that you did not intend to give us the 
pleasure of your company all day, and I only wished to 
know if you were going directly to The Breezes, or 
intending to keep on to Gray Rock ?” said the lady, 
with a deprecating smile. 

“ Oh, I understand perfectly, and so I am not sensi- 
tive ! We are going directly back to The Breezes, my 
dear lady, and will be happy to take you with us,” said 
the doctor. 


29S 


Em's Husband. 


“ Then, if you will kindly excuse me, I will go and 
put on my hat and shawl, and be ready, so that when 
our young friends have got through their tete-a-tete 
I may not keep you waiting,” replied the lady, as sh'e 
left the room. 

In the meantime Ronald Bruce passed into the blue 
parlor, where he found Em. awaiting him. 

The girl’s conscience prompted her to rebuke her 
lover for his second audacious attempt to break through 
her father’s prohibition. But at the sight of his loving, 
happy, radiant face, her heart condoned the offense. 

“ Dear Em., dear, dearest Em. ! don’t reproach me ! 
I have not seen you for a month. I could not stand it 
any longer. I had to make a friend of old Dr. Willet. 
I mean a confidant, for he was always my friend — one 
of my oldest and best friends — and I got him to bring 
me here and introduce me to the lady of the house. 
Oh ! Em., my treasure, I am so glad to see you ! Don’t 
reproach me!” 

Indeed, she could not do so. His beaming counten- 
ance continued to shine on her, while he held her 
hands, rapturously kissing them from time to time, as 
he poured forth this impetuous stream of words. 

“ I am very glad to see you, Ronald, but oh ! I know 
I ought not to be glad. Did my dear lady send you in 
to see me ?” she inquired, while he placed himself at 
her side on the sofa. 

“ Oh, yes, to be sure she did ! Some good spirit 
must have whispered to her how much I wished to see 
you alone,” he said, still tightly holding her hand and 
pressing it to his lips. 

“Don’t, Ronald, please don’t do that,” she said, with- 
drawing her hand, but adding, “ I told the lady all 
about us, Ronald.” 

“You! There, I said some angel had enlightened 


A Visit to The Breezes. 


299 


her, and you are the one !” he murmurred, as he recap- 
tured her hand and deftly slipped a ring upon her 
finger. 

“ Oh ! what is this ?” she exclaimed, raising the hand 
that he had then released and gazing upon the spark- 
ling solitaire diamond set in the golden circle around 
her finger. 

“ It is something belonging to you,” he gravely re- 
plied. 

“ Belonging to me !” she exclaimed. 

“Yes, it is your betrothal -ring, ordered for you some 
weeks ago, but never received until yesterday.” 

She began to withdraw the ring from her finger, but 
he caught her hand and prevented her from doing so 
as he said : 

“ No, Em., you must not remove it. You must wear 
it until it is replaced by a wedding-ring. Listen, Em. ! 
Don’t make me out a story-teller ! I said I had a parcel 
to deliver which belonged to you , as it did belong to you, 
since it was ordered and made for you — and that was 
my excuse for wanting to intrude on the seclusion of 
this hermit lady ! Don’t make me out a mendacious 
villain by refusing to take what belongs to you /” 

“ I don’t understand your logic, dear Ronald ; but I 
know I must not take a betrothal-ring from you in the 
face of my father’s prohibition of our engagement,” 
replied the girl, as she steadily withdrew the ring from 
her finger and returned it to him. 

“ Little wooden post ! Little marble pillar ! Little 
iceberg !” exclaimed the young man, half angrily. 
“ Are we not engaged, then ? Do you withdraw from 
your promise ?” 

“ No, dear Ronald, not one iota ! I promised never 
to marry any other person but you, and, of course, I 
never shall. It was hardly worth while to have made 


Em's Husband. 


300 


such a promise though ! It was altogether a word of 
supererogation, for in no case could I ever think of any 
other marriage. But notwithstanding that, Ronald, I 
can never marry you until my father withdraws his 
opposition, and so, dear, I must not take your ring.” 

“ It is you who are as relentless as a griffin ! I do not 
find it so difficult to manage the old man. He did not 
forbid me the house the last time I went to see you 
there ! No, although I went there on that occasion 
against his order !” 

“ I suppose he thought it was no use to prohibit the 
visits of a man who paid no attention to his prohibi- 
tion,-’ said Em., gravely. 

“ No, that was not the reason ! My father-in-law 
who is to be would have been more likely to have 
kicked out any other man but me, under the like cir- 
cumstances. But I am really very much attached to 
the old man, and he knows it, and he could not snub me 
while I smiled in his face ! That was the reason why 
he did not repeat his prohibition or even forbid me to 
visit you here !” 

“ Oh, my father would never have done the last ! 
He had no right to say that you should not come to 
Edengarden. But, Ronald, he confides in your honor 
and in mine. And we must not abuse his confidence. 
He shall not be disappointed in us, Ronald. Oh, I have 
something so delightful to tell you, dear Ronald ! I 
have already told you how I made known our case to 
my dear friend and benefactress, and I suppose that 
was the reason why she staid with Dr. Willet and sent 
you in to see me. Well, Ronald, this dear lady feels so 
interested in us that she is going to interfere, and she 
says she has a talisman — that is only her way of saying 
that she has power and influence with the commodore, 
^sufficient to win his consent to our marriage.” 


A Visit to The Breezes . 


301 


“ The Lady of Edengarden said that ?” exclaimed 
young Bruce, in surprise. 

“ Indeed she did, dear, and she promised faithfully 
to use her power in our favor.” 

“ I do *not know what power or influence this beauti- 
ful, mysterious and most interesting lady can have 
with my old uncle. I am very sure that he is not even 
acquainted with her ; for on one occasion, when I first 
came to The Breezes, I asked him if he knew his neigh- 
bor on the island, whose name was on everybody’s lips, 
he said : No, he didn’t know her, and had never even 
heard of her until very recently ; and he added, in his 
rough way, that he didn’t want to know her — that he 
disapproved of women whose eccentricities placed their 
names in everybody’s mouth ! That is a dark prospect 
for her success with my uncle, Em., my darling !” 

“ Ah ! but I suspect that the Lady of Edengarden 
knows what she is talking about. Besides, how should 
Commodore Bruce be able to tell whether he has ever 
known her before ! Hardly any one knows who she 
was, or where she came from. For my part, I believe 
she has the power and influence which she claims,” said 
Em., speaking with confidence, although she did not 
feel at liberty to speak with explicitness. 

“ Very well, my dearest, I pin my faith on Mrs. Lynn, 
and on your superior knowledge of that lady, only 
devoutly praying that my faith, as well as yours, may 
be justified,” said Ronald Bruce. 

What more he might have said on the same subject 
does not appear, because the abrupt entrance of the lit- 
tle page stopped the conversation. 

“If you please, sir, Dr. Willet bid me say to you, 
with his compliments, that he is ready to go,” said the 
boy. 


Em's Husband. 


302 


“ Very well ! Tell Dr. Willet I will join him in a 
minute,” replied the young man. 

The boy withdrew to carry his message. 

When they were once more alone, Em. said : 

“ Dear Ronald, do not keep the good doctor waiting.” 

“ I will not, darling, especially as I owe to him the 
introduction that enables me to visit you here ; for now 
that an entree has been effected, I shall come often, Em., 
unless my excellent father-in-law elect should take it 
into his conscientious head to forbid me ! Well, good- 
bye, my precious !” he said, stooping to kiss her. 

“ Stop,” she said, deftly evading the caress. “ I am 
going out with you to see Dr. Willet. I want to ask 
him how my dear, old Aunty Whitlock is !” 

“ Oh, Em., was ever a girl so blessed or burdened 
with relations as you are ?” 

“ Blessed — not burdened,” said Em., as they left the 
parlor, and walked on together to the little white 
saloon. 

“ Oh, Dr. Willet, I am so glad to see you to-day. 
Have you been to the Wilderness this morning ?” 
inquired Em., as she shook hands with the good physi- 
cian. 

“ Yes, my child ; and I left them all well, with the 
exception of Mrs. Whitlock, who is no better,” replied 
the doctor, as he arose to take leave. 

“You are going out, dear madam ?” inquired Em., as 
she saw Mrs. Lynn standing beside the doctor, dressed 
for her visit. 

“ Yes, my love. The doctor’s call this morning is 
very opportune, since it affords me the privilege of his 
escort to The Breezes,” said Mrs. Lynn, with a bow, to 
the physician. 

Em. exchanged an intelligent glance with her lover ; 
but that was all they could do, for the doctor advanced 


Bearding the Lion in his Den. 303 


and shook hands with her again, this time bidding her 
good-bye. 

“ But who is to bring you home again, madam ?” 
anxiously inquired Em. of her benefactress. 

“ I shall have that honor, so I will not say good-by, 
but au revoirg Ronald Bruce hastened to add, as he 
seized and pressed her hand. 

The lady and her escort then left the house, and 
walked down to the boat. 

“ It is only about half way to the Wilderness Manor 
Landing that we have to go to reach The Breezes, I 
believe,” said Mrs. Lynn, as she permitted herself to 
be assisted into the boat, and accommodated with a 
cushioned seat in the stern. 

“Scarcely so far. We shall reach The Breezes in 
half an hour with our rowing,” answered Ronald Bruce, 
as he pushed off the boat. 

Then both gentlemen laid themselves to the oars, 
and the boat sped on. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

BEARDING THE LION IN HIS DEN. 

By hope I see the landscape bathed in light ; 

And where the golden vapor vails the gaze, 

Guess out the spot and mark the site of happy days. 

Bulwer. 

It was a glorious autumn day. The sky, of a deep 
and brilliant blue, was without a single cloud. The 
moss-covered mountain-rocks on the right hand, and 


304 


Em.'s Husband. 


the wooded hills on the left, glowed and burned in all 
the most gorgeous hues— scarlet, golden, purple, green, 
crimson and orange — all reflected, as by a clear mirror, 
in the calm deep waters of the river. 

“ Oh, surely, this glowing day is a happy augury !” 
said the Lady of Edengarden, as the boat skimmed the 
water. 

“ Let us believe that it is so. Faith works miracles,” 
replied the doctor. 

The young officer turned a grateful glance on his 
good fairy, but said nothing. 

In a few more minutes they caught sight of the low, 
broad, gray front of the old mountain manor-house, 
roosted on its natural plateau of rock, half way up the 
precipice, and known to the country round by the name 
given it by its nautical proprietor — The Breezes. 

In a few more minutes the boat touched the sands on 
the lower landing, and Lieutenant Bruce sprang out 
and assisted his lady passenger to do the same. 

The ascent of the steep was difficult and wearisome, 
but not dangerous. 

Doctor Willet and Lieutenant Bruce each proffered 
strong arms to assist the lady in climbing, but she, who 
in the course of her travels had ascended more than 
one celebrated mountain, smilingly declined their aid, 
and with the help of her long-handled parasol, folded 
and used as a walking-stick, she went up the precipi- 
tous path as safely as a kid could have done. 

When they reached the plateau on which the house 
was built, they entered a gate in the stone wall upon 
the very brink of the precipice, and passing through 
the enclosed space went up to the front entrance, 

Lieutenant Bruce being at home, did not wait to 
knock, but opened the door and admitted the party. 

Dr. Willet led Mrs. Lynn at once into a little study, 


Bearding the Lion in his Den. 


305 


which had been placed at his disposal by the commo- 
dore, on his first arrival at The Breezes. 

He placed a chair for his companion, and said : 

“Remain here, dear Emolyn, where you will be entirely 
free from interruption, while I go and find my old friend, 
and break to him the news of your visit — indeed of your 
existence, which will seem to him like a resurrection 
from the dead,” added the doctor, as he pressed her 
hand and left the room. 

The lady sat back in her chair, trying to gain courage 
for the dreaded interview. And with the strange 
double consciousness which we have all, at times, 
experienced, while bending all her powers of mind to 
prepare for the approaching ordeal, she also observed 
the smallest detail in the dingy little corner nook in 
which she waited — the faded green carpet and curtains, 
the old walnut table and chairs, the quaint old-fashioned 
escritoire, half bureau as to its lower division, and half 
book-case as to its upper, whose shelves, seen through 
the glass doors, displayed a queer collection of old, 
mouldy folios. 

Meanwhile Dr. Willet went on to the handsome and 
well-appointed library where Commodore Bruce usually 
passed his days in reading, writing, smoking and doz- 
ing. 

He found the old sailor, wrapped in his wadded silk 
dressing-gown, and reclining back in his luxurious easy- 
chair, engaged in looking over a newspaper that had 
just been brought to him by his mail messenger. 

“ Ah, Doctor ! Back so soon ? I am glad of it ! 
There is nothing at all worth reading in the papers 
now-a-days, and I feel as dull as a ship becalmed at 
sea ! Well, how is your patient, sir ?” demanded the 
old sailor. Then without waiting for reply, he burst 


306 


Em's Husband. 


out with : “ It is disgusting to think you left your 

practice in the city and came here for a good rest — ” 

“ I came here for the pleasure of your company, my 
dear friend, and for nothing else under the sun !” inter- 
rupted the doctor. 

“ Well then, you came here for the pleasure of my 
company, which, by the by, is a very great and unde- 
served compliment to my powers of entertaining. But 
let that pass. You came for my company, and the rest, 
you know, is thrown in. But instead of a rest, you have 
found a free patient, whose condition requires you to 
ride about twelve miles a day — counting both ways !” 

“No more exercise than is required for my own 
health. Besides, I take an interest in the old woman. 
She is a very old acquaintance of mine, and in former 
days was often my co-laborer, being a professional sick- 
nurse,” said the doctor. 

“ Well, well, as you please, but I think it would be 
pleasanter now for you to take an occasional ride behind 
the hounds, with my nephew, instead of that dreary, 
daily sick call ! However, be it as you will ; only I 
hope the old crone will get well, or go to heaven before 
long. Is she likely to do either ?” 

“ Can’t say. She is in the very same condition as we 
have seen an old patient of hers and mine, and an old 
friend of yours. I refer to the late Captain Wynde- 
worth. This woman was his sick-nurse at the time that 
1 attended him in his last illness, during that dreadful 
winter preceding the trial of Emolyn Wyndeworth. 
Ah ! I have often thought, what a mercy it was that the 
old gentleman was taken away before that disaster fell 
upon his house,” murmured the doctor, purposely drag- 
ging in the Subject. 

“ Ah, so have I ! That fatal year was full of dis- 
aster ! First came the death of my good old friend, the 


307 


Bearding the Lion in his Den. 


— the loss of my dear boy at sea,” muttered the old 
commodore, in a breaking voice — “ then, worse than all, 
the terrible calamities that befell Emolyn ! Ah, that 
poor girl !” 

“ Did you ever ascertain her fate ?” pointedly inquired 
the doctor. 

“ Oh, no ; but of course she is dead ; of course she has 
been dead for many years. Emolyn Wyndeworth never 
could have survived the shame of a public trial — and 
such a trial !” 

But when it ended in her triumphant acquittal !” 

“ It was not triumphant for her. It was dishonor 
heaped upon dishonor, from beginning to end. Her 
defense was based upon the theory of paroxysmal 
insanity. Bah ! the verdict of acquittal was rendered 
upon the same ground. Bah ! Bah ! It killed her, sir ! 

“ Perhaps not ; she certainly had the consciousness 
of innocence to support her.” 

“ A very much over-rated support, sir.” 

“ You believe her to have been innocent ?” 

“ ‘ Believe ,’ Dr. Willet ! I know it, sir ! I knew that 
child from her babyhood up. So did you. And I 
know her to have been as innocent as an infant angel. 
She said that she had been married. I don’t believe she 
had ever been married ! but I know she was married 
because she said so ! she who never dreamed it possible 
;to lie ! She said her young husband was dead, and 
therefore, of course, I knew he was dead because she 
said so, she whose soul was truth ! She would not give 
up the name of her husband even to help her own 
defence. She would not drag down the name of an 
honourable family into the mire into which her pure 
name had been hurled by wicked hands ! How well I 
understood her motive ! She was a Wyndeworth ! 
She came of a race whose men were all honest, whose 


308 


Em.'s Husband. 


women were all pure ! She could not be otherwise. 
Divine lips have told us that ‘ men do not gather grapes 
of thorns or figs of thistles.' Emolyn Wynde worth 
was a true daughter of her noble line ! When put to the 
test, that gentle, sensitive, shrinking girl became heroic ! 
Yes ! I repeat it, Emolyn Wyndeworth was innocent, 
and not only innocent, but heroic ! I would to Heaven 
that I were as guiltless of offence towards her as 
she was towards all the world !” concluded Commodore 
Bruce, with a deep sigh. 

“ I am sure that you can have nothing to reproach 
yourself with in regard to that most unhappy lady,” 
said Dr. Willet. 

“ You don’t know anything about it, sir ! You don’t 
know anything about it ! Why, the very last night be- 
fore my poor boy, Lonny, sailed on that fatal voyage, 
from which he was destined never to return, on 
that very last night, I say, in the most earnest, tender, 
manly way, perfectly wonderful in .a mere boy like 
Lonny, he commended Emolyn Wyndeworth to my 
care. There were tears in the lad’s eyes, sir, as he 
spoke of her orphaned and desolate condition, and told 
me how he had loved her all his life long, and hoped 
some time or other to claim her as his wife. At that 
time, although he was about to leave me for a long- 
voyage, I could scarcely forbear smiling at the earnest- 
ness of the lad in speaking of a prospective wife, and 
commending the waiting bride-elect to my fatherly 
care. Of course, I promised to look after the girl, but 
equally of course, I forgot my promise — forgot it — ah, 
yes ! until the catastrophe brought it to my mind too 
late ! too late !” 

All this the old commodore had told the doctor 
several times before, yet with the fatuity of approach- 
ing dotage, he told it again. 


Bearding the Lion in his Den. 369 


“ Forgive me for saying that I think you exaggerate 
your responsibility in this matter, and torture yourself 
needlessly.” 

“ No, I don’t ! No, I don’t ! I will prove to you that 
; I don’t by mentioning — that which I never breathed to 
; any human being before — that Emolyn Wyndeworth 
j had been privately married to my son— that her child 
was his legitimate daughter ! There, it is out ! Now 
you know the secret of what you call my morbid self- 
reproach ! It was my poor, shipwrecked and drowned 
boy who was the lost husband of whom she spoke. It 
was our name she refused to bring down to dishonor 
when the false accusation of child-murder had branded 
her pure name !” 

“ Father in Heaven ! can this be true ?” exclaimed 
the doctor, in much agitation. 

“ I firmly believe it to be as I have said. She was the 
wife of my son by a private marriage. But when 
unmerited dishonor fell upon her name, she resolved, 
by her silence, to shield us from any share in it. She 
died, and made no sign.” 

“ Commodore Bruce, for Heaven’s sake, declare to 
me what reason you have for believing this !” 

. “Every reason that ought to have opened my eyes 
I before the catastrophe came ! My son’s solemn charge. 
Her deep dejection after his departure. The fact that 
they had been the most intimate friends and playmates 
from their infancy to youth, so that he had no other 
;girl playmate, she no other boy acquaintance. This 
j should have enlightened us all, if we had not been as 
blind as bats ! Then again her declaration that her 
young husband had belonged to a good family, and that 
he was dead. All this pointed to Leonidas Bruce. 

“ Again, in those last, sad months, when her uncle 
lay slowly dying and I was accustomed to visit him 


3io 


Em! s Husband. 


every morning, I recall her wistful looks into my face — 
the looks of a poor, hunted fawn — the pleading gaze of 
a poor, helpless, frightened creature that mutely prays 
for mercy ! — the looks she would raise to my face, as 
she stood in the front hall waiting for me to pass ! 
Why, sir, I tell you, hundreds of times I was on the 
point of speaking to the poor child and asking her what 
her trouble was, but that Malvina Warde — may the 
foul fiend fire her ! — was always in the way, rattling 
with her tongue and hurrying me along, so that beyond 
a nod or a word I could get no conversation with the 
girl. And shortly after I went to sea, and did not 
return until the trial of Emolyn Wynde worth was on. 
It was very short, you know, and after she was 
acquitted she suddenly vanished from sight, nor could 
all my effort to trace her be successful. So many years 
have passed since then that I have quite given her up 
for dead,” sadly concluded the old man. 

“ And yet, for aught you know to the contrary, she 
may be living,” murmured the doctor. 

“ Bah !” exclaimed the commodore. “Julius Caesar 
may be also living, but it must be in another sphere of 
existence. No, the opportunity of saving or helping 
Emolyn Wyndeworth passed out of my hands, because 
I was, in her case, too dull of perception, too slow of 
action. But, understand this : Even at the time of 
the trial I did not suspect that Emolyn Wyndeworth 
had been the wife of my son. I suspected it after- 
wards, upon reflection, and then, as I recalled all the 
circumstances of the case, I saw them in a new light, 
and my suspicion became conviction, and filled me with 
regret, that grew into remorse, for my previous dullness 
and blindness, which had resulted so fatally for that 
poor, forlorn child. Thus, you see, sir, I mourn the 
early and tragic fate of Emolyn Wyndeworth in a sor- 


Bearding the Lion in his Den. 


3 1 1 


row that is without hope,” said the old man, dropping 1 
his gray head upon his chest. 

“ But, as we have never had any proof of her death, 
she may be still living !” the doctor ventured again to 
suggest. 

The commodore made a movement of disgust and 
impatience, demanding : 

“ If she is not dead, why has no one ever heard any- 
thing of her in all these years ?” 

“ Perhaps some one has heard of her,” quietly sug- 
gested the doctor. 

“ Bah !” exclaimed the old sailor. 

“ I think — I am sure that some one has heard of 
her.” 

“ I should like to know who it is, then !” exclaimed 
the commodore, incredulously. 

“ It is I !” 

“Eh?” 

« j r* 

“ You r 

“ Yes !” 

“ Heard of Emolyn Wynde worth !” 

“ I have !” 

“ Good Heaven ! You don’t say so !” 

“Yes, I do !” 

“When? Where? How? Speak, sir! Where is 
she ? Living ? Well ?” demanded the excited old man, 
pouring question upon question with impetuous rapid- 
ity. 

“ She is living, and well, and not very far off,” quietly 
answered the doctor, as he arose, poured out a glass of 
water and made the commodore drink it. 

“ It seems incredible !” exclaimed the old man, as he 
returned the empty goblet to his friend. 


3 12 


Em's Husband. 


“ I knew you would be agitated by such news, and I 
tried to prepare you for it,” said the doctor. 

“ It fills me with joy, and joy does not hurt any one. 
It moves me with gratitude, and that blesses every one. 
Thank Heaven ! Oh, thank Heaven ! But where is 
this lady now? If she should be within five hundred 
miles of me, I will seek her within a week,” said Com- 
modore Bruce, more firmly and calmly than he had yet 
spoken. 

“ She is much nearer than that. She is quite within 
your reach,” calmly replied Dr. Willet. 

“ Where ? Where ? Speak, friend ! There is no 
need of farther preparation. If you were to tell me 
she was in the next room, it could not startle me now /” 
exclaimed the commodore, unconsciously touching the 
very truth. 

Still the doctor deemed it best to be cautious. 

“ Have you never suspected her possible identity with 
that of the recluse Lady of Edengarden ?” significantly 
inquired the doctor. 

“Never! What? The Lady of Edengarden? You 
don’t mean to tell me — ” the old man paused and gazed 
with amazement on the doctor. 

“Yes, I do. I mean to tell you that Emolyn Wynde- 
worth and the Lady of Edengarden are one and the 
same,” the latter assured him. 

The commodore dropped his head upon his chest, 
and stroked his full gray beard. 

“ Is she living there at present ?” he at length 
inquired. 

“Yes ; though usually she does not live there in 
the winter.” 

“ Then I will go to see her before tweny-four hours 
are over my head.” 


The Meeting. 


313 


“ There will be no need. Emolyn Wyndeworth has 
come to see you !” 

“ Eh !” 

“ Emolyn Wyndeworth has come to see Commodore 
Bruce, her father’s old friend. She only waits your 
pleasure to receive her.” 

“ Where ? Where ? Where does she wait ?” 

“In the little green study, at the end of the hall,” 
replied the doctor, composedly. 

The veteran of seventy-six sprang up with the agility 
of a youth of sixteen and dashed out of the library, 
exclaiming : 

“ Emolyn Wyndeworth here ! In this house ! Oh ! 
how I thank Heaven to have lived for this happiness !” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE MEETING. 

A hundred thousand welcomes ! I could weep 
And I could laugh — I’m light and heavy ! Welcome! 
A blight begin at the very root of his heart 
Who is not glad to see thee ! Welcome ! 

Shakespeare. 

“ Emolyn Wyndeworth ! Emolyn, my child, can it be 
possible that I find you again after all these years ?” 
exclaimed Commodore Bruce, seizing the hands of the 
lady as she arose and offered them on his entrance into 
the little study. 

“ You are glad to see me, then ?” she murmured in 
low and tremulous tones. 


Em! s Husba n d. 


3H 


“‘Glad?’ Oh, my Lord!” aspirated the old man, 
with all his soul. 

“ Let me sit down,” she breathed, in almost inaudible 
tones, as she sank back, trembling, into her seat. 

“You are not much changed ; not so much as might 
have been expected. No, indeed you are not,” he 
resumed, as he stood before her, holding her hands, and 
gazing wistfully, tenderly into her face. 

“ Years of life without smiles, or tears, or frowns, or 
any emotion that could trace a line on cheek or brow, 
a life in marble, a life in death, leaves no vestige of its 
passage on the face or form,” mournfully replied 
Emoyln. 

“ But, my child, why have you led this life ? Why 
have you expatriated and hidden yourself from your 
friends all these years ?” 

“ You ask me why ? Oh ! Commodore Bruce !” 

“ Well, I suppose I know or can surmise your motive 
for doing so ; but Emolyn, that motive arose from a 
very morbid mind. Oh ! child, if you knew how I have 
* sought you, sorrowing,’ all these years !” 

“ Ah ! why should you have taken any interest in one 
so lost ?” see sighed, covering her eyes with one hand. 

“Why? You ask me why?” he inquired, uncon- 
sciously repeating her own words. “ I will tell you, 
Emolyn. My poor boy, my poor Lonney, with his last 
words, before sailing on that fatal voyage — committed 
you to my charge — telling me that when he should 
return from his voyage he meant to claim you for his 
wife.” 

A low moan of pain escaped the lips of the lady, but 
she made no comment. 

“ Ah ! Emolyn ! would to Heaven I had paid that 
heed to his words which I afterwards, but too late, 
found they deserved ! But how could I have known ?” 


The Meeting. 


3i5 


“ How, indeed ? You knew nothing. Do not 
reproach yourself,” breathed the lady, in low, almost 
inaudible tones. 

“ But I ought to have known, or inquired, or dis- 
covered ! Emolyn, child ! what was the meaning of 
the pleading eyes you used to raise to mine, when I 
would pass you in leaving Green Point, after a visit to 
your bed-ridden uncle ? Tell me, dear ! Tell me !” 

“ It were bootless to tell you now what I had not the 
courage to tell then,” she replied. 

“ And I — hard, cold and blind that I was, I never 
encouraged you to open your heart to me, although I 
had promised my poor boy to watch over you,” groaned 
the commodore. 

<k Do not reproach yourself,” she repeated. “ I might 
never have been able to confide in any man.” 

“ Yet I should have drawn your secret from you, 
Emolyn ! Tell me now, I conjure ! In the name of 
the dead, I conjure you, tell me, were you the wife of 
my son ?” solemnly demanded the veteran. 

She paused a moment, and then answered in a low, 
distinct voice : 

“ I was.” 

The commodore dropped his gray head upon his 
open hands, and groaned aloud. 

“ I thought so ! I thought so ! But not until it was 
too late ! Not until you had passed out of my reach 
and knowledge entirely. Oh, child ! If only you had 
confided in me, what sorrow would have been saved !” 

, “ He wished to do so, as soon as we were married, for 

boy as he was, he had a man’s intelligent and delicate 
I sense of honor. He wished to do so, but I was afraid 
to consent. We were married nearly a month before 
he sailed ; and every day he pleaded with me to let 
him confess his marriage ; but the very idea of doing 


3 l6 


Em's Husband. 


so frightened and distressed me so much that he would 
yield the point.” 

“ Fatal timidity on your side — fatal compliance on 
his !” sighed the commodore. 

“ I told you just now not to reproach yourself. I beg 
you now not to reproach me, for I have already suffered 
the bitter fruits of my cowardice, nor him , for he has 
passed beyond our judgment,” solemnly replied Emolyn. 

“ Mv child, I am not reproaching — I am only lament- 
ing !” 

“That, too, is vain.” 

“I know it; yet, oh, how differently all this might 
have ended, had he but confessed your marriage even 
at the last moment !” 

“ He was in honor bound to me not to do so. At the 
very last moment he implored me to release him from 
his promise, and allow him to tell you and his mother, 
and leave me under your protection. But I was afraid 
to consent, and sent him away sorrowing.” 

“ Poor boy ! Poor boy ! Yet he did what he could. 
He did invoke my protection for you, Emolyn, although 
he was not permitted to use the argument that would 
have bound you to us, by owning you as his wife. Ah ! 
what a misfortune !” 

“ But I must tell you what more he did, that you 
may know how thoughtful, how loving, how earnest he 
was. On the last night he stayed in his own home he 
spent the hours which should have been given to sleep 
in writing a long letter of confession to you, telling you 
all the circumstances attending our marriage, and 
invoking your pardon of him and protection of me. 
This letter he inclosed in one to me, in which he 
besought me to .seek your presence at once ; or, if I 
could not summon courage to do so, at least to keep 
the inclosed letter carefully, so that I might be able to 


The Meeting. 


31 / 


present it to you in case I should ever stand in need of 
j^our friendship — ” 

“ Where is that letter ? Where ? Why, oh ! why, 
my child, did you never deliver it to me ?” impetuously 
demanded the commodore. 

“ At first I was afraid. Afterward, when the greater 
terror overcame the less, I looked for my precious par- 
cel and could not find it. My cabinet had been rifled 
of that and of all my correspondence — of everything, 
indeed that could. have afforded the slightest circum- 
stantial evidence to the truth of my marriage." 

“ Who was the thief ? Who ?’’ indignantly demanded 
the veteran. 

“ I have no positive knowledge, and I have 110 right 
to speak of my suspicions," replied Emol} T n. 

“ Oh, my child ! If, even without those proofs, you 
could have summoned resolution to have come to me 
and told the whole storj' !” sighed Commodore Bruce. 

“ Are you sure that you would have believed me ? 
Yet at one time I had resolved to make a full disclosure 
of my relations to you." 

“ I wish to heaven you had ; but when was that ? 
Was it when you used to watch for me in the hall, and 
look at me with large, wistful eyes as I passed out ?" 

“ Oh, no ; it was after you had gone away. I had 
\ been plunged in despair by the news of my husband’s 
sudden death ; but it was not until I knew — what, in 
my ignorance, I was long in knowing — that I should 
become a mother, and the fate of an innocent being 
would depend upon mine, I was inspired with the cour- 
age of desperation and resolved to go away with 
my faithful nurse to her relatives, and stay with them 
until my child’s arrival and your return, and then, if the 
babe lived, to take it to you and tell it was your son’s 
child, and that I, its mother, was your son’s widow,” 


Em's Husband* 


3i8 


“ I wish to heaven you had done so.” 

“ I should have carried out my resolution, if the fatal 
catastrophe had not fallen so suddenly upon me ! Then 
after the death of my child and the shameful accusa- 
tion — Oh, I cannot speak of this !” exclaimed Emo- 
lyn, breaking off and dropping her head upon her 
hands. 

“ I know — I know,” murmured the commodore, in 
deep emotion — “ you acted with the heroism and self- 
devotion of your race and nature. • You refused, even 
for your own preservation and vindication, to tell your 
real story and bring our name into the trial.” 

“ Yet, without it, I was acquitted and vindicated by 
all but by myself.” 

“ How, Emolyn, how ? What do you mean, my 
child ?” inquired the old man, in distress. 

“ I know not — oh ! I know not what happened that 
horrible night !” she gasped with a shudder. 

“You were irresponsible. You are free from re- 
proach.” 

“ Oh, let us not talk of it ! The thought — the doubt 
— has made me a vagabond and wanderer on the face 
of the earth, trying to hide from the world, to fly from 
myself. Oh, let us not talk of it ! Let us talk of some- 
thing else !” She shivered and buried her face in her 
hands. 

They were both painfully silent for a few moments. 

At length Emolyn raised her head and spoke : 

“ Commodore Bruce — ” 

“ My dear,” said the old man. 

“ I did not come here with any intention of telling 
you my secret, nor should I ever have told you if you 
had not asked me the direct question.” 

“ I only asked you, Emolyn, that I might receive con- 
firmation of my own convictions, I am glad and grate- 


The Meeting. 319 


ful that you came to see me, and gave me the oppor- 
tunity of making inquiries that have brought out the 
truth.” 

“ Yet I should never have had the hardihood to leave 
my seclusion after all these years if it had not been for 
one in whom I take a deep interest. I mean my little 
namesake, Emolyn Palmer, whose acquaintance I have 
recently made.” 

“ Ah !” exclaimed the commodore. 

“ I am aware that you know her quite well.” 

“Oh, yes ; she passed a week here — a very interest- 
ing young person. She might have had a permanent 
home with us, if it hadn’t been for the folly of my 
nephew Ronald in fancying he had fallen in love with 
■ her.” 

“ It is of that ‘ folly ’ I have come to speak to you. It 
does not seem to me to be folly, but an honest, manly, 
faithful love, likely to last his lifetime,” said Emolyn, 
earnestly. 

“ I am very sorry to hear you say that. I trust in 
Heaven, for his sake, that it is not true,” gravely replied 
the old man. 

“ What is your objection to Emolyn Palmer as the 
wife of your nephew ?” 

“ Objection ? My dear lady, how can you ask ? My 
objection is not a particular, but a general one.” 

“ She is beautiful.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ She is graceful.” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Amiable and irreproachable in character.” 

“ Quite so.” 

“ Intelligent and fairly educated.” 

“She is all that.” 


320 


Em's Husband. 


“ And is she not sincerely attached to your nephew 
and yourself, and beloved by both ?” 

“ Yes, it is true.” 

“ And are not all these qualities that you would desire 
to find in the chosen bride of Ronald Bruce ?” 

“Yes, my dear lady — all these qualities are to be 
desired, but they are not all that are to be expected in 
my nephew’s wife.” 

What else would you have, you exacting man ?” 

“ Wealth and a good social position,” curtly replied 
the commodore. 

“ Emolyn Palmer shall have both,” said the lady, 
quietly. 

“ Eh ! Emolyn Palmer have wealth and social posi- 
tion ? How is that possible ? You dream, my child !” 

“ Yes, I do dream, and I mean to realize my dream. 
The child, Emolyn Palmer, has interested me more 
than any person or anything that I have met with for 
the last seventeen years. I feel my heart so drawn out 
\ towards her that I begin to believe in the possibility of 
happiness in this life even for me, through her ! For 
her sake I have come to see you. I told you that in 
addition to all her personal attractions, she should have 
the necessary ones of wealth and social position. 
Wealth I will give her. I have no children, nor near 
relatives to share my fortune. I will, therefore, give 
my little namesake a marriage portion that shall make 
her the equal in fortune to any young lady in this State. 
| Her marriage will give her the social position that is 
required, for the wife takes rank from her husband. 
Thus Emolyn Palmer shall have wealth and position 
l added to all her personal attractions. Will you now 
consent to the engagement of these lovers ?” earnestly 
inquired the lady. 

The commodore waved his thin, white hand to and 


The Meeting. 


32i 


fro, as if gently putting away her arguments, as he 
replied : 

j “My dearest young friend, that is all benevolent 
sophistry. I do not wish my nephew’s wife to owe her 
rank to her husband’s family alone. A beggar-girl 
might do that. No, good birth , even before wealth 
or personal attractions, is what I desire and insist upon 
in the wife of Ronald. And let me tell you, my dear 
and gentle Emolyn, that this and all other desirable 
attributes, are to be found in the lady I long ago 
selected for him — Hermia, my niece. They are, indeed, 
my co-heirs, and they must marry. There, my dear, 
there is my decision. And now, my Emolyn, you have 
known me of old. You know that when my judgment 
has decided any course of action to be the right one no 
power on earth can move me to alter.” 

“ I know ! I know ! That is the reason why I 
feared you so, and shrank from confessing my marriage 
to you, until it was too late. Do not fear. I shall not 
continue to importune you, Commodore Bruce,” said the 
lady, in a tone of pain. 

“ Do not be vexed with me, Emolyn, my child. It is 
inexpressibly distressing to me to be obliged to place 
myself in opposition to you on any subject at this our 
first re-union, after so long and hopeless a separation. 
Believe me, dear, I appreciate the benevolence of your 
actions, which is in perfect keeping with the tenor 
of your whole life. I approve your kind intentions 
towards this young girl, with only one exception — ” 

“ The only vital one,” murmured Emolyn. 

“ Be as kind to her as your good heart dictates in all 
things. Give her the advantages of wealth and a 
higher culture. She deserves them, and will put them 
to good use. Do all you please for her, my dear ; but 
do not torment yourself or me by trying to bring about 


Em's Husband \ 


3 22 


a marriage between Ronald Bruce and the overseer’s 
daughter. 

“ Fear no importunity from me, sir. I shall not recur 
to the subject again in your presence,” said the lady, in 
the same tone of pain. 

“ Now I fear that I have angered you, Emolyn.” 

“Oh, no, not angered, only disappointed me,” she 
replied. 

Then rising, and gathering her India shawl about 
her, she held out her hand, and said : 

“ I wish you good-morning, sir.” 

“ What ? Going ? You are not going so early ?” 

“ Thanks ; but I must.” 

“ At least stay to lunch ?” 

“ Much obliged ; but it is impossible.” 

“ Let me then introduce you to the ladies of my family 
My niece and her daughter will be happy to see you.” 

“ Not for the world. I came not out of my grave to 
make a fashionable call. I came to fulfill a mission, 
which has failed. Let me go in peace.” 

“ But, my dear, your cousins — Mrs. and Miss Warde 
— are here, my guests. Let me send for them, and 
make known your presence,” said the commodore, 
reaching his hand for the bell. 

But the lady’s hand quickly arrested his. 

“ No, on your salvation !” she cried, in great excite- 
ment. “ Not for a thousand worlds ! Oh ! stop ! 
Nothing should ever induce me to meet Malvina Warde ! 
Never could I bear to look upon her — her, the cause of 
all my sorrows — my enemy — my destroyer !” 

“ Well, well, my dear, you shall not see her ! She is 
no great favorite of mine, although she is unhappily 
my guest. Calm yourself, Emolyn. Sit down, and 
let me offer you a glass of wine. Do.” 


The Meeting. 


323 


“Thanks, no — nothing. I shall only trouble your 
boatmen to take me back to the island.” 

“ They are at your orders, Emolyn,” said the old man, 
once more approaching his hand to the bell. 

Again she arrested his motion, as she said : 

“ One moment. I had nearly forgotten an import- 
ant point. But the mere mention of that woman so 
maddens me that I forget everything else for the time 
being ! Commodore Bruce, what I must say and to 
impress upon you is this — that I do not wish my name 
mentioned, or my existence revealed to any human 
being, either in this house or out of it. Like Noah’s 
weary dove, I have folded my wings to rest in peace in 
the ark of my island. But the same day that reveals 
my name and identity to this neighborhood, sees me go 
lorth again a homeless wanderer over the face of the 
•earth !” 

“ I will keep your secret, my poor, morbid Emolyn ; 
but — Ronald and Willet, who know who you are ?” 

“ I can trust them as I trust myself.” 

“ Then you are safe.” 

“ Now, please ring the bell and order the boat for me.” 

“Certainly. I may come to see you at your ‘ Island 
of Calm Delights ?’ ” 

“Yes, I shall always welcome you.” 

Again the old man approached his hand to the bell ; 
but he was again prevented from ringing it. 



CHAPTER XXXI. 

A STARTLING VISITOR. 

Much in the stranger’s mien appears 
To justify suspicious fears. 

On his dark face a scorching clime, 

And toil, hath done the work of time — 

Roughened his brow, his temples bared. 

And sable hairs with silver shared ; 

Yet left — what age alone could tame — 

The lip of pride, the eye of flame. 

The lie that terror never blenched, 

The eye where tear-drop never quenched 
The flash severe of swarthy glow 
That scorned pain and mocked at woe. 

Walter Scott. 

The interruption proceeded from the voice of the hall 
footman, saying, in a rather insolent tone : 

“ Well, then, you can step in here, my man ! Them 
is no one in here, and you can go in here and wait till J 
go and tell my master that you want to see him,” add* 
ing in a lower tone : “ There’s nothing in there he can 
steal, I reckon, ’cept ’tis some mouldy old books.” 

The door was thrown open, and while the steps of the 
footman were heard retreating, a most disreputable 
looking tramp entered the study and stood boldly up 
before the party therein. 

[324] 


A Startling Visitor . 


325 


Now, while the commodore and the lady are gazing 
in stupified astonishment at this impudent intruder, I 
will endeavor to describe him. 

He was a tall, dark, gaunt man, whose long, thin 
swarthy face was hedged in by a wild, neglected thicket 
of grizzled black hair and beard, and whose fierce, 
burning black eyes were overhung by thick, shaggy, 
black brows. He wore an old suit of clothes that 
might have once been of any color, but was now of 
none ; around his neck a dingy woolen scarf ; on 
his feet a pair of broken shoes ; in his hand a torn hat. 
He was altogether a wayworn, travel-stained, dilapi- 
dated, and dangerous looking customer, such as one 
would not like to meet on a dark night, or on a deserted 
road. 

The commodore regarded him wrathfully, frowningly 
— the lady, curiously, wistfully. 

“ Who in the demon are you ? What jail have you 
broken out of? And what in the fiend’s name do you 
want here ?” sternly demanded the veteran ; while the 
lady leaned forward, gazing on the man with a strange, 
intense and breathless interest. 

“ Good Heavens ! Do you not know, then ?” de- 
manded the poor tramp, in a voice full of anguish. 

“ No ! Never saw you in all the days of my life 
before, and never wish to see you again ! Begone!” 
exclaimed the veteran ; while the lady half arose from 
her seat, stared at the stranger with eyes that widened 
and widened in amazement, with lips breathlessly apart, 
and color coming and going rapidly. 

“ Did you not get my letter, written from Marseilles, 
then ?” inquired the stranger. 

“ What in the demon’s name are you talking about ? 
You are drunk, man, or mad ! Leave the house 
instantly !” exclaimed the irate old gentleman, starting 


Em's Husband. 


326 


up as if he would have ejected the intruder by main 
force, had he been strong enough. 

“ Oh, my soul ! my soul ! Do you not know me — 
Lynny ?” pleaded the wanderer, turning his wild, sad, 
prayerful eyes on the intense, listening, breathless, 
eager face of the lady. 

The question broke the spell that bound her. 

“ Saved !” she cried, and her piercing shriek rang 
through and through the house, as she started up, threw 
herself into the arms of the tramp and fainted dead 
away. 

The sight and sound, but not the meaning, of this 
action met the dulled senses of the aged veteran. 

Starting to his feet in a fury, he thundered forth : 

“ What in the demon do you mean you cursed villain, 
by breaking into this room and frightening a lady into 
fits ? Lay her down on that sofa, this instant, and don’t 
presume to touch her again ! Leave the house ! 
Begone ! If you stop another second, Satan burn you ! 
I’ll send you to the county jail for six months ! I’m 
in the commission of the peace and I’ll do it !” 

“Yes. I had best go, for the present. She has 
fainted. Call her women to her,” said the tramp, in a 
gentle tone, as he laid his burden down with tender 
care upon the sofa. 

“ If you don’t take yourself out of this room in double 
quick time, you tramping thief, you’ll find yourself in a 
pair of handcuffs on the road to prison before you know 
it !” roared the commodore, as he seized and jerked the 
bell-rope violently. 

But the sad wanderer had already left the study. 

The commodore continued to ring the bell furiously, 
peal upon peal, until the hall footman rushed in with 
alarm. 

“ Go after that tramping vagabond and kick him out 


A Startling Visitor. 


327 


of the house ! Then call all the dogs and set them on 
him, and hunt him off the premises ! Do you hear ?” 

“Yes, sir,” replied the man, as he went out, dismayed, 
to give place to Wren, the little page, whom the violent 
ringing of the bell had also brought to the scene. 

“Water!” cried the commodore, who was now 
engaged in trying to recover the fainting woman. 

The boy vanished, and soon reappeared with a silver 
pitcher and goblet. 

The commodore poured some on his hand and threw 
it in the face of the lady, and waited for the effect, but 
she showed no sign of consciousness. 

“ Brandy ! From the beaufet ! In the library !” he 
cried, in growing alarm. 

The page ran away and soon re-entered with a decan- 
ter and glass. 

The commodore poured out a little of the brandy, 
and, holding up the head of the helpless woman, tried 
to force a few drops between her lips ; but the liquid 
only tippled over the surface. 

“ I don’t know what on earth to do for her ! She for- 
bid me to call the ladies to see her before she fainted, 
and it seems hardly fair to do so now that she cannot 
defend herself ! And I don’t know how to recover her, 
not I !” cried the commodore, in despair. Then turn- 
ing furiously on the footman, who had re-entered the 
study, he demanded : 

“ Did you do as I ordered ? Did you kick that va- 
grant out and set the dogs on him ?” 

“Yes, sir,” replied the man, unhesitatingly telling a 
fib, for he had not sought for the poor tramp with any 
such cruel intention, as was afterwards proved. 

“ Served him right ! Glad to hear it !” grunted the 
old man, as he recommenced his efforts to recover his 
patient, but in vain. Suddenly he remembered the 


Em.'s Husband. 


328 


presence of the physician in the house, aud wondered 
he had not thought of him before. 

“ Go and ask Dr. Willet to be kind enough to step 
here immediately/’ he said. 

“ If you please, sir, Dr. Willet has gone out,” said the 
footman. 

“ Gone out ! the deuce ! How unlucky ! Where has 
he gone ?” 

“ If you please, sir, to the Wilderness Manor-house. 
Mr. John Palmer he came all in a hurry for de doctor, 
sir, to go to the ageable old woman what is dying dere, 
and wants to see the doctor afore she goes, which dey 
don’t think she can last another day, sir.” 

“ How very unfortunate !” exclaimed the old man, 
who never ceased from his ineffectual efforts to recover 
his patient. “ I do not know where to turn ! She will 
die, and all on account of that cursed tramp I” Then 
bursting forth like a storm upon the head of the foot- 
man, he violently demanded : 

44 And what didj you mean, you rascal, by sending that 
ruffian in here to frighten this poor lady to death ? 
Yes, to death , you villain ! And when she dies I’ll have 
you hanged for murder ! I will, by my life ! Why 
don’t you answer me, you scoundrel ? What did you 
mean by showing that burglar, that robber, that cut- 
throat, into this room to kill this lady ?” 

“ ’Deed, ’deed, ’deed, I 'clare to my judge, marster, I 
never knowed nobody was in here, which dere almost 
never is nobody in here ; and I didn’t know nothing 
about the lady wisiter, as she must a come on along of 
Dr. Willet or Lieutenant Bruce, ’cause I didn’t let her 
in myself, and didn’t know nothing about it, sir ; and 
likewise thought as you was in the libery. And as for 
the tramp, sir, he did say as he wanted to speak to you 


A Startling Visitor . 


329 


werry particular, to bring you news of a long- absent 
friend—” 

“ An excuse to beg ! An excuse to beg ! Or to 
swindle ! Or to extort money ! What did the ruffian 
call himself ?” 

“ He 'dined to give no name, sir ; but said how you'd 
know him when you seed him.” 

“ An impudent liar ! I never set eyes on him 
before. I wish I had committed him !” exclaimed the 
old man, who was all this time diligently chafing the 
temples of the unconscious woman with hartshorn. 

“ So I just put him in here to wait, sir, where I 
thought there wa’n’t nobody sitting, nor likewise noth- 
ing to steal, 'cept 'twas them old, worm-eaten books in 
the old screwter.” 

“ Worm-eaten books, you villain ! My precious black- 
letter copies of the early Christian fathers ? If the thief 
had gone off with any of them, your hide should have 
paid for it ! — Oh, Heaven ! No change in her yet ! I 
must have woman’s help here,” said the commodore, 
breaking off in his abuse of the servant and attentively 
regarding the marble face below him. “ See here, sir ! 
Go and ask my sister to come here immediately ? Don’t 
alarm her, you rascal ! Don’t say a word about the 
fainting lady ! Just deliver my message.” 

The footman, glad to escape, hurried out of the room 
to obey this order. 

While he was gone the old man continued to chafe the 
temples or beat the hands of his patient, and groan 
over her, and curse the tramp. 

In a few minutes the widowed sister came in, saying, 
pleasantly : 

“Did you want me, brother?” . Then seeing the 
motionless form of a woman extended on the sofa, she 
started and exclaimed : “ Who is that ?’’ 


330 


Em! s Husband. 


“ Come here, Margaret. Don’t scream nor cry, nor 
above all, don’t faint ? One fainting woman is as much 
as I can get along with at one time,” said the commo- 
dore, taking his sister by the arm and leading her to 
the sofa. 

“ But who is this lady ? What ails her ? How came 
she here ?” inquired the puzzled woman, bending over 
the unconscious form. 

“ Don’t you recognize her ? Look again,” said the 
old man, uneasily. 

‘‘ No, I do not,” replied the lady, after a careful 
scrutiny. 

“ I believe you are right ; for now I come to think 
of it, you never met her.” * 

“ But who is she ?” 

The old man hesitated for one weak moment, and 
then loyally answered : 

“ This lady is Emolyn Bruce, the widow of my poor, 
dear Lonny.” 

The widow’s brown eyes opened wide in amazement 
as she answered in a low, frightened voice : 

“ I never knew that Leonidas had been married !” 

“ I did ! I knew it long ago ; but I had good reason 
to suppose that his poor young wife had not long sur- 
vived his loss. She has re-appeared, however, I thank 
heaven ! And here she lies, fainting, dying, for aught 
I know ! Margaret, dear woman, don’t stop to ask 
another question, but help me to save her !” anxiously 
exclaimed the old man. 

Controlling the extreme curiosity awakened by the 
situation, the lady knelt by the side of the sofa and 
began to loosen the sufferer’s clothes to facilitate 
breathing. 

“ She must be got to bed at once. The parlor cham- 
ber happens to be in order. We will convey her there. 


A Startling Visitor. 331 


Ring for two women to come and help to lift her,” were 
the first words with which the widow broke the silence. 

The commodore complied with this direction, and 
then came back to the side of his sister, saying : 

“ For heaven's sake, Margaret, let all be done tenderly 
and very quietly. There must not be a nine days’ won- 
der created in the house.” 

“ Of course not. I should deprecate such a state of 
things as much as you could.” 

“ And, Margaret, you have a heart. I need not, there- 
fore, beg you to be very gentle w r ith this suffering girl 
when she recovers her consciousness.” 

“ Be sure that I will treat her as I would treat my 
own child,” said the widow, and her sympathetic face 
confirmed the truth of her words. 

“ Go and send Dorcas and Lydia here,” said the com- 
modore to the little page who appeared in answer to 
the bell. 

The child ran on his errand, and two strong colored 
women made their appearance. 

Under the lady’s instructions Emolyn Bruce was ten- 
derly lifted and conveyed to the parlor chamber, where 
she was undressed, clothed in a white wrapper, and put 
to bed. 

The old commodore, who had followed the party to 
the chamber-door without daring to enter, hovered on 
the outside, waiting for news. 

In a few minutes, however, his sister opened the door 
and beckoned him to come in. 

She led him to the side of the bed, where Emolyn lay 
as white and motionless as a marble effigy on a marble 
tomb. 

“ I wish to consult you, brother,” whispered the widow, 
as they stood together looking down on the beautiful, 
pale face before them. 


^ ^ -1 
00 “ 


Em'.s Husband. 


“Do you think there is any danger, Margaret?” 
anxiously inquired the veteran. 

“ No, for I have known women to lay in fainting fits 
much longer than this, and recover without injury ; 
but her breath scarcely dims the glass held to her lips, 
and her pulse is scarcely perceptible ; and I think you 
had better call Dr. Willet.” 

“ The deuce of it all is, that Willet has gone to the 
Wilderness Manor-house to see that old paralytic. 
He could not be brought back before night, when he 
will come back of his own accord. Meanwhile, what 
shall we do, Margaret ?” 

“ Use the means within our reach, and wait the issue. 
It must have been some terrible shock that threw her 
into this state. May I now inquire what it was, brother ? 
You need not tell me if you do not wish to,” said the 
widow. 

“ It was a cursed tramp ! — a black- visaged, red-eyed, 
elf-locked cut-throat, who looked like a fiend from the 
Inferno, with all the sulphurous smoke and fire hang- 
ing around him ! I wish I had a hand on him now ! 
I’d break his diabolical neck and send him back to 
Tartarus, where he belongs !” wrathfully exclaimed 
the commodore. 

“ Hush ! She moves, I think,” said the lady ; and 
both watchers bent eagerly over the entranced form. 

But they were mistaken. She did not move, nor, 
though her attendants continued their efforts to recover 
her, did she show any sign of consciousness until 
nearly an hour had passed away. 

When at length she sighed and stirred, Dorcas raised 
her head while the lady placed a glass of wine to her 
lips so that she mechanically swallowed the stimulant. 

Revived by the wine she opened her eyes, sat up in 
bed, and gazed around in confusion for a moment. 


333 


A Startling Visitor. 


Then a paroxysm of sadness seemed to sweep over 
her. She pressed her hands upon her eyes, upon her 
brows, upon her temples, pushed back her hair, and 
stared around with starting orbs and open mouth, and 
then suddenly shrieked forth : 

“ Where is he ? Oh ! where is he ? Where ? Where ?” 

“ He is gone, my dear. Don’t be afraid. Calm your- 
self. It is all right,” answered the commodore, sooth- 
ingly ; for he thought her excitement was caused by 
revived terror of the tramp. 

At the words of the old man she turned her wildly 
roving eyes on him with an intense stare of astonish- 
ment. 

u Gone ! Gone ! Did you say gone ? Oh ! where 
has he gone ? Why did you let him go ?” she cried 
with frantic earnestness. 

“ I wish I hadn’t ! I wish I had committed him to 
prison, only there wasn’t sufficient grouuds. But don’t 
be frightened. Compose yourself, my dear. You are 
just as safe from him as if he was in prison. He will 
never come back to bother us, after being kicked out 
the house by the servant, and hunted off the land by 
the dogs !” said the commodore, laying his hand ten- 
derly on the head of the excited woman, who had not 
for one instant ceased to rave. 

But she dashed it off, fiercely exclaiming : 

“ Oh, you cruel, ruthless, remorseless man ! I feared 
you would be so ! I feared you would ! Thafs why I 
never told you ! Why he could never persuade me to 
tell you, you wicked, vindictive man ! — ” 

“ She is hysterical, she does not know what she says,” 
said the widow, while Emolyn continued to rave in 
growing excitement. 

“ She is delirious, quite so ! I wish Willet would 
return,” sighed the commodore. 


E ))i . II us b a n d. 


*> -> A 

3 o4 


“ I am not delirious ? It is you who are mad with 
hatred and revenge — unnatural, monstrous hatred and 
revenge, after all these years ! Go bring him back ! 
If he had been the prodigal son, you should have 
received him ! But he was no prodigal ! Not even a 
prodigal ! And you turned him out ! You hunted 
him off ! Go bring him back ! Go bring him back, if 
you wish to escape perdition !” she continued to cry, in 
what seemed to her attendants a frenzy of insanity. 

“You see she had been talking about her husband 
when this cut-throat ruffian came in and frightened her 
into fits, and now she has got all mixed up in her 
impressions,” whispered the commodore, while the 
excited woman continued to rave and rave in the same 
strain without a moment’s cessation. 

“ This must be stopped. I shall give her a dose of 
morphia,” whispered his sister ; and she rose and left 
the room for the expressed purpose. 

And Emolyn raved on, bitterly reproaching the com- 
modore. 

“ Mad people always fly in the faces of their best 
friends,” said the old man, as he continued his efforts 
to calm the frantic woman. 

The widow returned, bringing a small glass of port 
wine, with which she had mixed a dose of morphia. 

“ Here, my poor girl, drink this and compose your- 
self,” she said, in her gentlest and most persuasive 
tones, as she held the glass to Emolyn’s lips. 

“ If I do, will you send at once and bring him back ?” 
demanded Emolyn, fixing her wild, excited, pleading 
eyes on the face of the lady. 

“ Indeed I will I she answered. 

“ Because he can go with me to the island, where we 
will live like Adam and Eve in Eden — without the ser- 
pent . ” 


A Startling Visitor. 


335 


“ So you shall, my dear, if you wish,” said the lady. 

Emolyn took the glass, drank the contents, and threw * 
herself back on the pillow. 

In a few moments she was quiet, in a few more she 
was asleep. 

“ Now,” said the lady, “ you must send and seek that 
tramp and have him brought back to the house.” 

“ In the name of Heaven, why ?” demanded the com- 
modore. 

“ First, because I promised, and I will not break a 
promise, even w T hen it is given to humor a delirious 
patient ; and, secondly, because I do think there is more 
in this than appears ,” replied the lady. 

“ What should there be in it ?” 

“ I don’t know. But find the man and bring him 
here.” 

The commodore expostulated and swore. 

The lady persisted and gained her point. 

The order w r as given and the servants started on 
their quest. 

Emolyn slept on, hour after hour watched by the 
widow. 

The servants returned from their long and careful 
search, with the news that the tramp could not be 
found. 

“ Why are you so anxious to have that ruffian brought 
back ?” demanded the provoked commodore of his sis- 
ter, as they stood together beside the sleeper. 

“I have told you the reason,” said the lady — “that 
Emolyn shall be satisfied.” 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE TRAMP’S STORY. 

Of most disastrous chances, 

Of moving accidents by flood and field, 

Of being taken by the insolent foe 
And sold to slavery. 

Shakespeare. 

“ Better so,” sighed the poor tramp to himself, as, 
when ejected from the study, he paused in the front 
hall, which happened for the moment to be deserted. 
“ Yes, better so. I came too suddenly upon them, and 
they had not got my letter. I did not mean to shock 
them so ; but what did that blundering negro mean by 
springing me upon them in that startling manner ? 
He told me there was no one in the study. Well, pos- 
sibly, he thought so. It can’t be helped now. I must 
be patient, though it seems harder to wait minutes now 
than it was to wait years in the hopeless past.” 

Then, instead of leaving the house, as the commo- 
dore had peremptorily commanded him to do, the “ cut- 
throat ” threw himself down into a chair, dropped his 
hat by his side, and stretched out his limbs with the air 
of a man who meant to remain and make himself at 
home, while he continued his mental soliloquy : 

“ The man I met on the road and questioned about 
L336] 


The Tramp's Story. 


337 


the family, told me there was an old Dr. Willet on a 
visit here — our old family physician, of course. If I 
could only catch sight of him now and make myself 
known, 1 could procure a decent suit of clothes before 
presenting myself to any one else. But would he 
recognize me ? ‘ Ay, there’s the rub.’ The old man did 

not ; but then his sight is dimmed by age. Ah ! he has 
grown very aged since I saw him last — more aged even 
than his years would warrant — not in temper, though ! 
Whew ! what a fury he was in when he turned me 
out ! He would have hurled a chair at me and broken 
my head if I had hesitated another moment ! It was 
hard to go and leave her, fainting there, but, I know, 
to have stayed would have made matters so much 
worse, even for her. How lovely she looked ! Yet 
colorless as marble, with the traces of sorrow on her 
beautiful face ! She recognized me, my love ! my 
own ! — Hallo ! who comes here ? Some one who will 
make me welcome, or show me the door ?” asked the 
tramp of himself as he saw a white-haired old gentle- 
man slowly descending the stairs. 

“ It is Dr. Willet ! He has grown gray siqce I saw 
him last, but I should know that eagle’s beak of a nose 
of his anywhere under the sun. I’ll stop him.” 

The good physician was about to pass the stranger 
with a kindly nod when the latter accosted him : 

“Dr. Willet.” 

“Well, my friend, what can I do for you ?” inquired 
the kind-hearted physician, very naturally supposing 
that his professional services were required by some 
poor patient. And he stopped. 

“ Sir,” said the tramp, very gravely, “I wish you, if 
you please, to look at me well and tell me if you 
remember me.” 

The doctor, surprised and puzzled by this address, 


Em's Husband. 


looked long and wistfully into the face of the stranger, 
first to see if he could recognize him, secondly to see if 
he was mad or drunk. 

“ Well ?” queried the tramp, in an anxious tone. 

“ As far as I can recollect, I never met you in my life 
before ; though I may have done .so in some hospital, 
where in many years I have, treated many transient 
patients. Was it there I made your acquaintance ?” 
inquired the doctor. 

“ No, I was never in a hospital since I was born, and 
I was never a patient of yours, Doctor ; — though, indeed, 
I believe you were the very first to introduce me to my 
nearest relations and friends on the occasion of my first 
appearance in this world, some thirty-five years ago,” 
said the tramp, with a gleam of that native, irrepres- 
sible humor which years of servitude and sorrow had 
not been able to extinguish. 

The doctor looked at him long and seriously, and 
then said : 

“ I am responsible for many such introductions, my 
friend ; though I cannot be expected to remember the 
faces of all to whom I officiated as gentleman usher. 
But you appear to be in need. Tell me how I can best 
help you and I will do so willingly.” 

“ I am no invalid and no beggar, Dr. Willet ! 1 ask 

only for recognition. I can command everything else,” 
said the tatterdemalion, drawing himself up with dig- 
nity. 

“ Lord bless my soul alive !” exclaimed the astonished 
and bewildered doctor, as he put on his spectacles and 
looked again at this strange stranger, who looked like a 
gypsy and talked like a king. 

The tramp bore the scrutiny well. 

“ Come nearer the light, sir,” he said, moving towards 
the open, sunny back door. 


The Tramp's Story. 


339 


“ Can’t you tell me who you are at once, man ? Only 
mention your name, and if I ever heard it before it will 
bring you to my memory,” said Dr. Willet, as he fol- 
lowed him. 

“ No, sir ; I must not name myself to you. I wish you 
to do that first. I wish to test you memory and prove 
my own identity. Come, sir, I will stand facing the 
open door. You will please place yourself in the most 
favorable position, and examine my features under the 
full light of the sun.” 

“ Lord bless my soul alive, what does it all mean ?” 
again exclaimed Dr. Willet, as he planted himself 
within two feet of the stranger, adjusted his glasses, 
and stared at him. 

“ Now, sir, be kind enough to look in my eyes, for 
they change least of all. And while you do so, I may 
prompt your memory a little — ” 

“ I am perplexed, but not in despair,” murmured the 
doctor to himself. 

“ You knew me from infancy to manhood. Then 
you lost sight of me,” continued the tramp. 

“ Lord — have — ” slowly began the doctor, but the 
words died on his lips as he stared with reviving recol- 
lection of the speaker. 

“ I am the son of one of the oldest and dearest of 
your friends — ” 

“ Mercy on — ” 

“ Missing for many years — ” 

“ Our souls !” 

“ Falsely supposed to have been lost at sea — ” 

“ You are Lonny Bruce !” cried the doctor, reeling 
back aS if he had been shot. 

“Yes, I am Lonny Bruce! Now don't you go and 
faint — that's a good fellow ! Brace up !” exclaimed the 
tramp, with half a laugh. 


340 


Em! s Husband. 


“ Lon — ny Bruce !” reiterated the doctor, as he leaned 
against the wall which had stopped him in his back- 
ward reel — “ Lon — ny Bruce ! And you are really 
alive ?” 

“ I rather think I am; but are you really sure you 
recognize me ? Because, you see, if you want any of 
the proofs usually required on such occasions — the ripe 
strawberry on my breast, or the tattooed anchor on my 
back, or any other birth-mark or branded scar, why, it 
will be very awkward, for I haven’t such a thing about 
me — no, not even so much as a mole. Nature and For- 
tune left all that out. So it is extremely important that 
you should be able to identify me without their help. 
Are you sure you know me now ?” 

“Yes ; I should know you among a thousand,” re- 
plied the doctor, who, still leaning for support against 
the wall, continued to stare at the returned exile. 

“ Could you swear to me, if called upon to do so ?” 

“ On a stack of Bibles as high as the Pyramids of 
Egypt.” 

“One will do,” said Lonny. 

“ But how did you escape ? Where have you been 
these seventeen years ? Why didn’t you come home 
long ago, or write ? Have you seen your father ?” 

“ Whist ! Whist ! for Heaven’s sake ! To answer a 
tithe of your questions, Doctor, would keep me here all 
day long. Now that you see and know me, you must 
perceive that I am in want of everything and every- 
thing else. First and most of all a bath, a barber, and 
a clean shirt. I must be metamorphosed into a Christ- 
ian before I present myself again to my old father, 
when, it is to be hoped, he will acknowledge his son. 
And then in good time, dear friend, I will satisfy your 
curiosity. Oh ! you shall hear a story as long and as 
full of adventures as the Arabian Night’s Entertain- 


The Tramp's Story. 


34 T 


ments. Oh ! what a fireside treat you will have this 
winter if you stay with us ! But come. Are you going 
to help me ?*’ 

The doctor, who had been thinking profoundly while 
the returned man spoke, now looked up and asked : 

“ Why not go to your father just as you are ?” 

“ Like the prodigal son ! Lord bless you, so I did ! 
But the old gentleman didn’t fall on my neck and kiss 
me worth a cent ! He didn’t know me from the king of 
the Cannibal Islands ! He stormed and threatened me 
with the constable and a prison, if I did not march 
double quick ! I obeyed him and an instinct of self- 
preservation, and left the room. To have remained 
another minute would have been unwholesome.” 

“ Ah ! if I were blind, I should know you now for 
Lonny Bruce ! Should know you from that buoyancy 
of spirit that no misfortune could repress,” said the 
doctor. 

“Thanks, but I want my father to know me,” said the 
tramp. 

“ Very well, I will try to help you. Come with me,” 
said the doctor ; and he led the way to the long draw- 
ing-room, which was now closed and vacant and never 
opened, or tenanted, except on “ high days and holi- 
days.” 

“ Come in here, where no one will think of intruding 
on you, and remain while I go in search of your cousin 
Ronald,” said the doctor, as he opened the door and 
preceded the stranger into the apartment. 

“ My cousin Ronald ! What ! The little lad I left in 
the school-room when I went to sea ? Is he in the 
house ?” inquired Lonny, with a gleam of delight in his 
dark eyes, as he entered the room and dropped into the 
nearest easy-chair. 

“ Yes ; but he is not a little lad now, by any manner 


342 


Bin's Husband. 


of means ! He is even a bigger lad than you, if any- 
thing. I will send him to you at once. He will take 
you to his room and attend to all your wants. Unluck- 
ily, Lonny, I must leave you.” 

“ Must you ? I am sorry. I would like the circle of 
friends to be complete to-day,” said Leonidas, with a 
look of disturbance. 

“ Why, so should I ; but I am called to an old patient 
of mine who is lying dangerously ill at the Wilderness 
Manor-house. At the moment you stopped me I was 
even then on my way to join the messenger who was 
waiting in his wagon to take me away.” 

“ Oh, indeed, I see that you have no time to spare ; 
so don’t let me detain you,” said the young man, with 
visible reluctance. 

“ No, not a moment more even to bestow on such a 
joyful arrival as yours. Lord bless my soul ! how 
strange all this is ! I never was so unwilling to obey a 
professional call in my life. However, I will dispatch 
Ronald to you immediately.” 

So saying, the good doctor hurried out of the draw- 
ing-room and upstairs to the private apartment of 
Lieutenant Bruce. 

Time being too precious to permit much ceremony, 
he entered without knocking, and found the young gen- 
tleman sitting at his table absorbed in writing a letter 
- — to Em., most likely, as he was so deeply engaged as 
not to be disturbed even by the bustling entrance of the 
old physician. 

“ Lieutenant !” exclaimed the latter. 

“ Well, Doctor,” cried the young man, starting to his 
feet. “ What news ? Has the lady succeeded in bring- 
ing my uncle to reason ?” 

“ The lady is still with your uncle. I believe, though 
I don’t know. But I haven’t come about your sweet- 


The Tramp's Story. 


343 


heart, Ronald, but about something- of more pressing 
importance ; and I haven’t time to break the news, so 
you must brace yourself at once for a severe shock. Are 
you braced ?” 

“ Yes,” answered the young man, turning white as 
death, and setting his teeth firmly ; for he knew not 
what disastrous stroke he was to be called upon to bear. 
“ Yes, I am ready.” 

“ Now then, think of Alexander Selkirk, Robinson 
Crusoe, La Parouse, Captain John Riley, the Swiss 
Family Robinson, the four Russian Sailors, the — ” 

“ In the name of Heaven, man, speak !” exclaimed the 
lieutenant. 

“ — And Lonny Bruce ! there, it’s out ?” said the 
doctor. 

“What in the world do you mean ?” demanded the 
young officer, wondering if the staid old physician, for 
the first time in his life, had taken a glass too much. 

“ Haven’t I told you ? Lonny Bruce has come home.” 

“ WHAT !” cried Ronald, starting to his feet. 

“ Lonny Bruce, so long supposed to have been lost at 
sea, has come home, safe and sound, as many a missing 
man has done before him !” repeated the doctor. 

Ronald stared as if his eyes would have started from 
their sockets. 

“ Do you hear me ? Can’t you take it in yet ? I tell 
you Lonny Bruce has come home ! He is in this house 
at this present time ; I have seen him and spoken with 
him.” 

“ Do I — ” 

“Yes you do. You hear exactly right !” exclaimed 
the doctor, impatiently interrupting the bewildered 
speaker. “ You are not dreaming nor are you mad ; 
neither am I ! You are wide awake and in your right 
mind, and so am I who tell you all this strange news. 


344 


E in . ’ H\ iisba n d. 


Now listen, Ronald Bruce, for I have got to hurry off to 
old Nancy Whitlock, who is in extremity. John Palmer 
has been waiting to take me to the Wilderness in his 
wagon for half an hour or more, so I have no time for 
further explanation. Lonny Bruce is below. No one 
except you and myself dreams of his presence in the 
house. You will find him in the long drawing-room 
needing all sorts of attention. Rouse yourself ! Go to 
him ! Rise to the occasion, man !” 

So saying the doctor hurried off, leaving the young 
lieutenant standing there in a state of stupefaction 
from which indeed he found it difficult to rise. 

The rumbling of the wagon wheels that carried the 
doctor off was the first sound that broke the spell that 
bound him. 

Then he started like one awakened from a dream, 
walked down stairs and opened the door leading into 
the long drawing-room. 

The place was half dark, for all the window shutters 
were closed ; so the young lieutenant walked in slowly, 
peering curiously to the right and left. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


WELCOME. 

Oh, it fills my soul with joy 
To greet my friends once more.’' 

Here 1 am ! Here is your disreputable-looking 
cousin ! I had better proclaim my name and rank, 
lest the good doctor has not prepared you to meet a 
ragamuffin !’’ said a voice from a remote corner, as a 


Welcome. 


345 


tall and shadowy figure arose and emerged from the 
darkness. 

The lieutenant threw open a window-shutter, let in a 
flood of light, and turned at once to meet his kinsman. 

“You are Leonidas Bruce ! Welcome ! It seems 
incredible — impossible ! but you are Leonidas Bruce ! I 
know you at once by your eyes and smile. Welcome ! 
Welcome ! Thank Heaven, you have lived to come 
back to us, though at so late a day, and like one from 
the grave. Welcome ! Welcome ! Welcome !” ex- 
claimed Ronald Bruce, as he heartily shook both 
his cousin’s hands. If he had been of any other Christ- 
ian nation than English or American he would have 
embraced and kissed his restored kinsman. But his 
greeting was felt to be sufficiently heartful. 

Tears sprang to Lonny’s eyes. For a few moments 
he could not speak at all. Then he said, with much 
emotion : 

“You are the very first who has welcomed me home, 
warmly and without doubt. My father drove me from 
his presence. One nearer and dearer fainted at the 
sight of me. Good Doctor Willet mistook me for a 
beggar, and offered me alms. Only you knew me and 
welcome me at once. But, are you quite sure you 
know me !” inquired Lonny, with morbid and touching 
anxiety. 

“ Quite sure. I never forget a face. Besides, your 
portrait, taken just before you went away, has been 
familiar to me from boyhood up ; and you have not 
changed so much from that.” 

“ But my father did not know me at all.” 

“ His sight is very dim ; besides, he was not prepared 
to expect you, as I was.” 

“ Doctor Willet did not know me at first, though he 
recognized me afterwards.” 


346 


Em '.s Husband. 


“ His vision is also somewhat impaired by age, 
though not so much as your father’s, and, besides, he 
did not expect to see you, either, as I did.” 

“ I wrote from Marseilles ; but it seems my letter 
never came to hand.” 

“ The foreign mails are notoriously irregular ; so are 
the country mails ; between them both your letter has 
been delayed or miscarried. But come, Lonny ! Though 
I am devoured with curiosity, I will not ask you a single 
question, for you seem to be in urgent need of rest and 
refreshment,” said Ronald Bruce, turning toward the 
door. 

“ Stay ! Stay ! If by refreshment you mean food, I 
do not require any. I got a substantial meal from a 
hospitable farmer on the Grey Rock Road. What I do 
need, as I explained to Dr. Willet, is a bath, a barber, 
and a fresh suit of clothes.” 

“ You shall have them all as expeditiously as possi- 
ble.” 

“ Take me to your own room. You are at home here 
I suppose.” 

“ Yes ; so are you ; though the folks don’t know it as 
yet. But come with me, so that I can attend to your 
wants.” 

Lonny turned to follow his cousin. 

Just as they were about to pass into the hall, Ronald 
saw his Aunt Margaret descend the stairs, and pass into 
the little green study. He held Lonny back until she 
had disappeared. 

“ That was our aunt. I did not want her to see you. 
No one must see you till you are dressed. Come now,” 
said Ronald, as he led the way up stairs. 

Just as they passed into the lieutenant’s room, a door 
on the opposite side opened, and Mrs. Bruce came out 
and crossed the hall. 


Welcome. 


347 


“ That was my mother. Now we are safe from obser- 
vation at last,” said Ronald, as he closed the door. 

These were the only risks they ran of discovery. 

As soon as they found themselves alone, Ronald 
turned to his cousin, and said : 

“ I know you do not wish to be seen by any one, not 
even by a servant, until you are transfigured and re- 
newed.” 

“ No, indeed,” replied Lonny, earnestly. 

“ All right ; then I will lock the door and be your 
valet myself !” said Ronald, as he went and turned the 
key in the door. 

“ Now look in here, Lonny,” he continued, opening 
an inner door. “ Here is a bath-room, with every pos- 
sible convenience for the toilet. Go in there and make 
ready, while I lay out your clothes. I am a little larger 
than you, but I guess mine will do for the present — 
Stay, however, I have a thought !” 

“ What is it ?” inquired Lonny. 

“ An inspiration, my dear fellow !” 

“ Of what description ?” 

“ You shall hear anon.” 

And with these words Ronald unlocked the door and 
passed out, carefully closing it behind him. 

Lonny threw himself into a chair and waited, won- 
dering whether he or his friends were more eccentric 
than the rest of the world. 

His wonder was not lessened when Ronald re-ap- 
peared, lugging in that life-sized portrait of Lonny that 
had been taken in his midshipman’s uniform, just be- 
fore he went to sea. 

Ronald locked the door carefully, and then stood the 
picture on the floor, leaning against it, and said : 

“ Do you know that boy ?” 

“ I used to know him, some seventeen years ago, and 


348 


Em.’s Husband. 


a sad dog he was, to be sure ! He came to no good, I 
dare say,” replied Lonny, with a rueful smile. 

“ Well, that” said the lieutenant, rapping on the can- 
vas, “ was the last his friends saw of him, was it not ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, this” said Ronald, again rapping the canvas 
— “ or something very like this, must be the first his 
friends see of him again ! In other words, Lonny 
Bruce, you must dress to match your portrait of seven- 
teen years ago, so that your friends may know you at a 
glance. Do you understand ?” 

“ Yes, but it will be difficult.” 

“Not at all! Listen now. I have the recipe, the 
pattern, the programme, all cut, dried, and laid out ! 
After you have had your bath and put on fresh under- 
clothing, we must take the plantation barber so far into 
our confidence as to let him cut and shave that bandit- 
like black beard of yours, and trim those unkempt elf 
locks into civilized proportions. Then you must put 
on my last midshipman’s uniform, which is quite 
new and fresh, and which, having been discarded by 
me two years ago, when I was promoted, will probably 
fit you perfectly.” 

“ And so, when that toilet is completed, I shall come 
forth a new, revised, and improved edition of the Mid- 
shipman Lonny Bruce of seventeen years ago ?” 

“ Exactly.” 

“ An excellent idea ! Thanks, Ronald ! I am impa- 
tient to act upon it. My father will be sure to recog- 
nize me now,” said Lonny. 

“All right,” laughed Ronald, 

He then proceeded to open his wardrobe and bureau, 
and to lay out from them all necessary articles of ap- 
parel required by the wanderer. Lastly, he unlocked a 


Welcome . 


349 


lumber closet, and took from its peg the midshipmans 
uniform. 

All these things he lifted in his arms and conveyed 
into the communicating bath-room, saying, as he came 
out : 

“ Now all is ready for you in there, Lonny. Go in 
and get ready. I will go down and send the barber up 
here to you, with directions to wait in this room until 
you want him. Then I will go and find your father and 
break the news of your return to him. But, for Heav- 
en’s sake, Lonny, do not leave this apartment until I 
come back for you.” 

“ Of course I will not,” replied the latter. 

Lieutenant Bruce then left the room, and went slowly 
down the stairs, asking himself how on earth he should 
ever be able to tell the commodore without killing him. 

In the hall below he met his own servant, and to him 
he said : 

“ Timothy, go and find the barber, and take him to 
my room, and tell him to wait there until he is called. 
There is a gentleman there who will require his ser- 
vices.” 

“Yes, sir. Did you hear, sir, about the robber what 
broke inter de house dis morning and drawed a pistol 
on Marse Commodore in de little green study, and 
scared one of de ladies into fainty fits, and jumped clear 
through de glass windy, and made off before any one 
could catch him ?” 

“ Oh ! yes, I heard all about him,” replied the young 
gentleman, smiling to himself to see how the poor 
tramp’s adventure had grown in the telling. 

“We libs in awful times, master,” added the man, 
who seemed inclined to linger. 

“ We do indeed. But now run and find the barber. 
Yet stay a moment. Where is the commodore ?” 


350 


Em's Husband. 


“ He been tending to de fainty lady ’til jes dis minute, 
when he went to de liberary to ’ceive de mail bag, 
which de mail-boy have jes fotched in.” 

“Very well. 1 shall find him there. Now run on 
your errand.” 

The boy obeyed, but the lieutenant stood still, rumi- 
nating how he could ever with safety break to the long 
bereaved old father the news of his son’s return, and 
praying that it might be given him in that hour what to 
speak. 

“ I have it !” he said to himself, at length. “ I have 
it ! The mail has just come in with the Washington 
and Richmond papers ! I will go in and take up one 
and offer to read it to him. I will then pretend to read 
the heading of an article : i Remarkable Return to 
Life.’ ‘ Re-appearance of a young man long supposed 
to have been lost at sea.’ 

“And then I’ll read a rigamarole about somebody, or 
rather nobody, that shall resemble Lonny’s arrival, and 
so prepare the old man’s mind to hear the fact, by pre- 
senting the possibility of such a thing. Bah! I know 
it will throw him in a fit, all the same,” concluded the 
poor lieutenant, as he opened the library door and went 
in. 

He found the old commodore seated in his big arm- 
chair at the table; holding an open letter in his shaking 
hand, and staring at it with starting eyes. 

The young man saw, as by a flash of lightning, what 
had occurred. The commodore held in his hand the 
long-delayed letter from Marseilles, referred to by poor 
Lonny, announcing his existence and intended return. 

No need of breaking news here. 

“ Ronald ! For Heaven’s sake, look at this !” 
exclaimed Commodore Bruce, as soon as he saw his 
nephew. The lieutenant, instead of immediately com- 


Welcome . 


351 


plying with his uncle’s request, went to the buffet, 
poured out a glass of cogniac, and took it to the old 
man, who received it with a trembling hand, and drank 
it at a draught. 

“ Ronald ! Ronald ! You are shocked to see me in 
this state ; but if you knew the contents of this letter 
you would wonder you had not found me stone 
dead in my chair, struck by a lightning flash of joy ! 
Ronald ! You may marry the girl you love now ! You 
may do anything in the world you like to make your- 
self happy ! I would all the world were as happy as I 
am now ! There ! Read the letter. I — Read it !” 

He stopped, for he was tremendously agitated. 

The lieutenant took the letter. It was short and 
crudely written, as by a hand long unaccustomed to the 
use of the pen. It was dated Marseilles, September 
1st, and it told, in a few brief words, of the wreck of the 
U. S. Frigate Eagle on the coast of Africa, seventeen 
years before ; of the loss of all the officers and crew, 
with the exception of the writer, who was rescued by 
the natives and carried captive into the interior, where 
he had long remained ; of his flight to the seacoast 
after many ineffectual efforts ; of his escape on board 
of a French ship, and his voyage to Marseilles ; of his 
failure to find friends who would listen to or believe a 
story that he could not prove ; and finally of his being 
obliged to work his passage home, on board of a Balti- 
more clipper, which would sail in a few days. 

While Ronald Bruce read this letter, the commodore, 
recovering his voice, was pouring forth his emotions 
in a torrent of exclamations. 

He was to follow the letter by the next ship, you see ! 
In a few days ! The date of that letter is old ! It has 
been delayed ! It was sent first to the Navy Depart- 
ment at Washington ! Then forwarded here ! Good 


352 


Em.'s Husband. 


Heaven, to think of it ! Even the Consul at Marseilles 
discredited his story ! A half naked vagabond, picked 
up by a French ship on the coast of Africa, and clothed 
by the humanity of the crew. Obliged to work his pas- 
sage home ! It is my son, Lonny, that I am talking of, 
Ronald — do you understand ? My son, Lonny Bruce, 
who was falsely supposed to have been lost at sea 
seventeen years ago !” 

“ Yes, yes, dear sir, I quite understand. I am read- 
ing his letter,” said the young man, trying to compre- 
hend, through the confusion, what he was reading. 

“ He will be here soon — very soon ! Those Balti- 
more clippers are fast sailers. He will go to Washing- 
ton first — to the Navy Department — to find out where 
I am. Then he will post here !” 

The impetuous torrent of language poured forth by 
the old man in his excessive excitement made it 
almost impossible for the young lieutenant to get in 
his word “ edgeways but, at length, he had an oppor- 
tunity of saying : 

“ If Lonny has neither money nor friends, he may 
have to tramp all the way from Baltimore to Washing- 
ton, and from Washington here.” 

“ So he may, poor, dear fellow,” said the commodore, 
musingly. 

“ By the way, did not that strange tramp who came 
here this morning say something about a letter from 
Marseilles which should have preceded him ?” inquired 
Ronald, meaningly. 

The old man started, looked keenly at the younger 
one for a moment, then doubling his fist and bringing 
it down upon the table, he smote it smartly, exclaim- 
ing : 

“ What an idiot ! What a monster I have been ! He 
was my Lonny ! And she knew him ! Oh ! it is all 


Welcome . 


r ^ 
OO J 


clear enough now ! What a jolter-headed beast I have 
been ! No wonder strangers discredited his story when 
his own father disowned him ! — ” 

“ Do not reproach yourself, sir ! Not dreaming of 
seeing your son, how should you have known him after 
so many years and in that strange dress ?” 

“ By nature, sir ! By nature, if I had not been an 
unnatural monster !” cried the commodore, springing 
up and striking out for the bell-rope. 

“ What are you about to do ?” inquired Ronald, inter- 
cepting him. 

“ Ring up the whole house and start them in pursuit 
of him.” 

“ I thought that had been already tried without suc- 
cess.” 

“True, true,” said the commodore, sinking back in his 
seat. “ He could not be found. He has taken a tem- 
porary shelter in some farmer’s house doubtless. But 
he will come back before night. He could never imag- 
ine that I would deny him /” 

“ No, never ; and I dare say he never even left the 
house at all, but is waiting in some vacant room for a 
good chance to make himself known.” 

“ Nothing more likely !” exclaimed the commodore, 
standing up again. “ They have looked for him too far 
away. They have ^Hooked him. They should have 
sought him nearer at hand.” And so saying he went 
for the bell. 

“ Stay ! do not call a servant ! Let me go and insti- 
tute a search,” said the lieutenant. 

“ Yes, thanks, that is better,” agreed the old man. 

Ronald Bruce left the library and flew, bound beyond 
bound, up the stairs to the chamber where he had left 
Lonny. 

He found the “ tramp ” washed, combed, shaved, 


354 


Em's Husband. 


trimmed, dressed, and looking not like the original of 
his portrait, but like the elder brother of the original. 

The plantation barber, having finished his work, had 
left the room. 

“ Come,” said Ronald, “ he is waiting to see you. No 
preparation was needed ; I found him reading your let- 
ter, which had just arrived. Come.” 

Lonny joined his cousin at once, and both, with beat- 
ing hearts, went below. 

“Go in alone. I cannot intrude on such a meeting, ’’ 
wfiispered Ronald Bruce, as they reached the door. 

Lonny passed into the library. 

The commodore stood in the middle of the room, 
with a look of expectancy on his aged face. 

“ Father !” exclaimed Lonny, hastening towards him. 

The old man started forward and caught his son to 
his heart, exclaiming : 

“ Lonny ! Lonny ! My son ! My son ! Oh, joy !” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

FATHER AND SON. 

And doth not a meeting like this make amends 
For all the long years IVe been wandering away? 

To see thus around me my youth’s early friends, 

As smiling and kind as in that happy day? 

Tho’ surely, o’er some of your brows, as o’er mine, 

The snow-fall of life may be stealing — what then ? 

Like Alps in the sunset, new lighted, in fine, 

We’ll wear the warm hue of youth’s roses again. 

Anon. 

The silence of unutterable emotion fell upon the 
father and son for a few moments, and then the old man 


Father and Son. 


355 


held the younger one off at arm’s length and gazed 
wistfully into his face, saying, as he slowly shook his 
white head : 

“ You are not so much changed since I saw you last 
on the day you sailed on that disastrous voyage, my 
boy ; not so much changed, after all. Somewhat 
taller and gaunter in form, darker in complexion, and 
older in aspect than formerly, but not so much as might 
have been expected after seventeen years ot captivity 
among barbarians. I am more changed than you are, 
my son. Ah ! I have grown very aged in the long 
years of your absence and supposed death, Lonny.” 

“ Yes, father, you and I are both travelling towards — 
eternal youth.” 

“ And your mother, Lonny — your mother — ” 

Here the old man’s voice became choked with emo- 
tion. 

“ Don’t, father, don’t. I heard all that in the city. 
Strangers to me, who would not credit my story, yet 
remembered — could tell me — how — ” 

Here Lonny’s voice broke down. 

“She could not survive the news of that fatal week,” 
said the commodore, struggling for self-command. 
“ She could not live to see this day, Lonny.” 

“ Don’t, father, don’t ! Don’t say that ! We know, 
when we think about it, that she has lived to see this 
day, though from a higher sphere. She has lived in 
heaven these many years ! Father, we must believe 
that, because she was so good. And we shall find her 
there in good time if we, too, lead good lives ! And 
now, dear sir, tell me of — of Emolyn.” 

“ Your wife ?” 

“Yes, my wife ! You know it, then ? She has told 
you ? I thought so when I saw her with you, but I was 


356 


Em's Husband. 


not sure, so I spoke very cautiously of her to my Cousin 
Ronald.” 

“ Yes, she told me,” admitted the commodore, but he 
did not add how very recently Emolyn had made her 
appearance and taken him into her confidence. To 
have done so would have involved too much explana- 
tion for the moment. 

“ How is she and where is she now ? 1 left her faint- 
ing. It was hard to do so — ” 

“ But you could not help yourself, as I was in such a 
blind fury that I took you for a ruffian who had fright- 
ened her half to death, and so I ordered you off, and of 
course to have persisted in staying would have made 
matters much worse for the fainting woman.” 

“ Yes, but how is she and where is she at this 
moment ? I am most anxious to see her. She recog- 
nized me, you know.” 

“Yes, and when she recovered from her swoon she 
became so wild, and excitable, and reproached us so 
bitterly for letting you go, and urged us so strenuously 
to fetch you back, calling you always ‘ him,’ and never 
using your name, that we thought her hysterical or 
delirious, and so your good aunt gave her a doze of 
morphia in a glass of port wine to compose her nerves. 
I left her sleeping under the influence of the opiate. 
You can come to her room, Lonny, and sit by her bed 
and wait for her awakening ; it cannot be far off now.” 

“ Thank you, father, I will do so. Naturally, I wish 
to see and speak with her before I do with anybody 
else,” said the younger man rising. 

The commodore got up and led the way towards 
Emolyn’s chamber. 

In crossing the hall he encountered his nephew, 
Ronald Bruce, and immediately stopped and hailed him 
in a loud voice, saying : 


Father and Son. 


35 7 


“ Come here, you young scape-grace ! I have got an 
errand for you ! One suited to your vagrant mind !” 

Ronald came, smiling, and stood before his uncle, 
cap in hand. 

“ The Lady of Edengarden cannot leave her room 
to-day ; nor must her young companion, Miss Palmer, 
be left alone or with only colored servants on the 
island. Take the boat, therefore, and go to Edengarden, 
see the young lady, give my respects to her and ask 
her, in my name, if she will do us the favor to return 
with you and join her friend here, who is too much 
indisposed at present to leave The Breezes. And — tell 
her anything else you like, for I will not go back on 
my promise, do you hear, you mutinous young dog ?” 

“ I hear. ‘ And to hear is to obey,’ ” said the lieuten- 
ant, laughing, as he bowed and bounded away to order 
his boat. 

“And pray who is 'the Lady of Edengarden?” 
inquired Lonny, as they walked on. 

“ Your Emolyn. The country people gave her this 
fantastic title because she has the most beautiful 
island home ever seen out of Paradise. It is near this 
place.” 

« And has Ronald a little love affair on the premises, 
as I should judge from your manner to him !” 

“ Oh, yes ! An innocent little love idyl with this 
lady’s adopted child, protegee, or pet, whichever she 
may be called — a love idyl, against which I set my face 
ifor a whole summer, and for no other reason than the 
girl is Ronald’s inferior in birth and fortune, for in 
almost everything else she is his superior— I can tell 
you that.” 

“ She must be an excellent girl to have won such 
favor from Emolyn,” said Leonidas Bruce, thought- 
fully. 


358 


Em's Husband. 


“ Yes ; but notwithstanding all that, I had set my 
face against the affair, both for the reasons I have 
explained — her want of rank and fortune — and also 
because I wished to bring about a marriage between 
Ronald Bruce and his cousin Hermia, who, failing you, 
would have been my co-heirs. But, bless you, the 
mutinous young dog would have defied me, and disin- 
herited himself, by marrying the girl long ago, if it had 
not happened that her father was too proud to permit 
his daughter to marry into a family where she was not 
wanted, and the girl herself was too pious to disobey 
her father. So, you see, the whole affair turned upon 
the pivot of my will, and the rebellious young rascal 
was forced to obey me, whether he would or no. How- 
ever, in my joy and gratitude at the news of your 
arrival, my son, I told the young rebel that he might 
marry his love, if he wanted to, that I had withdrawn 
my opposition to his marriage, and now I have sent him 
to bring the pretty child here to her benefactress — your 
Emolyn. Not much magnanimity in that, however, for 
now that your joyful return has changed the face of 
affairs, so that Ronald is no longer my heir, of course I 
have no longer any right to pretend to control his free- 
dom of action, or even any farther interest in trying to 
promote a marriage between him and his cousin. So I 
withdraw my opposition to his union with this child, and 
as her father has now no excuse for withholding his 
consent, I suppose he will give it. But whatever they 
will have to live on except his pay I don’t know, unless 
indeed your Emolyn should choose to endow her adopted 
child. She could do so. She is fabulously rich. But 
here we are at her door. There is no one but the old 
colored housekeeper watching her now, so we may 
enter.” 

They went into the room together. 


Father arid Son. 


359 


It was in semi-darkness, for the better repose of the 
sleeper. But the afternoon sun, shining against the 
heavy crimson curtains of the front windows facing the 
west, threw a deep, sombre, ruddy glow over the richly 
furnished chamber, and even lent a little color to the 
marble face of her who lay in deep repose upon the 
white bed. 

The old commodore went up to the bedside, followed 
by Lonny. 

The colored nurse respectfully arose from her seat, 
and with a courtesy yielded her place to her master. 

“ You may go now, Liddy. I will ring when we want 
you,” said the latter. 

With another courtesy, the woman turned and left 
the room. 

Sit you here yourself, Lonny,” said the commodore, 
pointing to the chair by the side of the bed, which had 
just been vacated by the nurse. 

Lonny, who was at that moment standing at the head 
of the bed, gazing anxiously down on the still, pale face 
of the sleeper, now almost breathlessly inquired : 

“ Is she well, do you think ?” 

“ Perfectly well, and when she wakes she will be pre- 
pared to see you ; for, mind you, she had already recog- 
nized you, and before we could induce her to drink 
that glass of port wine into which your aunt had put 
the dose of morphia, I had to promise her that you 
should be sought for and brought back, though little 
did we dream who you would turn out to be when 
found. So she will really expect to see you when she 
wakes. Therefore, all we have to do, Lonny, is to sit 
here and watch for that awakening, which cannot be 
far off. Meantime you can while away the hour by tell- 
ing me some of the strange adventures that you must, 
have had out in the wilds of Africa, or by asking me of 


Em's Husband. 


360 


anything you wish to know concerning what has trans- 
pired here in you absence.” 

“ But will our talking disturb Emolyn ?” 

“ No, not at all. We need not talk loud.” 

“ Will she sleep long ?” 

“ I think not. If she should, we may safely awaken 
her and give her a cup of strong coffee,” said the com- 
modore. 

Then they settled themselves down for a long talk. 

But in all their conversation Commodore Bruce 
adroitly avoided all mention of Emolyn’s long and fatal 
reticence and her terrible trial ; for not in that first day 
of happy reunion could the father darken the son’s 
spirit with the shadow of that long past tragedy. 

No. He spoke of Emolyn’s goodness and popularity; 
of her benefactions to the poor ; of her extensive for- 
eign travels ; of her lovely home in Edengarden ; and 
of her affection for her pretty namesake and lately 
adopted daughter, Emolyn Palmer, -whose cause she 
had been pleading, he said, at the very moment Lonny 
had surprised them in the study. 

“ Then my Emolyn will be made as happy by your 
consent to their marriage as the young lovers them- 
selves,” said Lonny. 

“ Quite,” replied the commodore. 

But at the end of that interview, the long absent, 
lately returned husband was left in complete ignorance 
that a child had been born to him, and that his wife had 
kept the secret of their private marriage, during all the 
long years of his absence and up to within a few hours 
of his return. 

It was late in the afternoon when Emolyn gave signs 
of awakening. 

The commodore whispered to his son to withdraw for 
a moment out of her range of vision. 


Father and Sou. 


3 6 1 


When Lonny had done so, the commodore stooped 
over Emolyn. 

She had awakened calmly, as all sound persons do 
after an opiate. 

“ Have you kept your promise to me?” she quietly 
questioned, fixing her eyes upon those bent on her. 

“ Yes, of course. I always keep my promises. Every 
officer and gentleman is bound to do so.” 

“ You have brought Lonny back ? Oh, where is he? 
Why doesn’t he come ? Let me see him at once !” she 
vehemently exclaimed. “ It was cruel ! cruel ! — it was 
mad in you to send him away at all ! Why on earth — ” 

“ Because I didn’t know him, child ! My eyes are 
old, and I took him for a — ” 

The good commodore had got in so many words 
“ edgeways,” while she continued to speak ; but now 
she vehemently interrupted him with — 

“ Not know Lonny ! Not know your own son ! I 
beg you to forgive me, though, for all my rudeness. I 
was so excited — I was almost crazy ; but oh, please, 
please , bring him to me at once !” 

“ I will, my dear, I will !” said the old man, as he arose 
from his seat, beckoned his son to approach and then 
glided silently out of the room. 

Leonidas Bruce went towards his wife. 

She had risen on her elbow, and was eagerly watch- 
ing the door out of which the commodore had passed. 
She evidently expected Lonny’s entrance through that 
way. 

But he came to her from the opposite direction, and 
said, softly : 

“ Emolyn !” 

With a slight cry, she started, turned and threw her 
arms around his neck, as he bent over her. 

“ Oh, Emolyn, my beloved ! This meeting pays us 


362 


Em's Husband. 


for all — does it not ?” he said, as he clasped and pressed 
her to his heart. 

Instead of replying, she burst into a storm of tears 
and sobs, crying, between her gasps : 

“ Oh, Lonny ! Lonny ! Oh, Lonny.! Lonny!” 

She was thinking at this hour of the child she had 
borne and lost under such heart-rending, soul-harrowing 
disasters. 

Her husband tried to soothe her. He thought she 
was crying in memory of their long separation, which 
was like the parting by death, as it was long supposed 
to be. 

“ Do not weep so ! You will make yourself ill. It 
has been a long, dreary, hopeless absence — yes, and 
silent as the grave ; but it is over now, forever, dearest, 
and surely you are glad I have come back at ‘ long last ?’ 
This meeting, I repeat it, repays us for all the past.” 

“ Yes,” she said, with a profound sigh. 

“ And it is over now, dear Emolyn. That first part- 
ing and long separation shall be our last also.” 

“Yes,” she sighed. 

“We meet now to part no more in this world, until 
the Lord’s summons comes for one or the other, or 
both — I hope it may be for both, Emolyn — to go ‘ up 
higher.’ ” 

“ Yes, I hope it will be ‘ for both,’ ” she added, wiping 
her eyes and striving to command herself. She per- 
ceived that he had not heard of the terrible ordeal 
through which she had passed, and not for the world 
would she, any sooner than his father, darken the first 
day of his return with the knowledge of the blight that 
had fallen on her young life. Later, Lonny should 
know all — all ! but not to-day, no, nor to-morrow. They 
must have a little rest before such a revelation. 

“ But that day of summons and departure is prob- 


A Sudden Summons. 


363 


ably far enough off for both of us, dear Emolyn. We 
are both young yet. Remember, we married when 
we were children. You a little over tifteen, I eighteen. 
Just seventeen years and a half have passed. 
You are not yet quite thirty-three. I no more than 
thirty-five. Why, unmarried people at that age pass 
for young ladies and gentlemen ! We have a long time 
yet to live and love, even in this world, dear Lynny.” 

“ Yes,” she said, smiling. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

A SUDDEN SUMMONS. 

Pr’ythee, say on 

The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim 
A matter of moment. 

I go, I go ; look how I go 
Swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow. 

Shakespeare. 

While the happy re-united pair spoke of future hopes 
and plans, Commodore Bruce passed off to the long 
drawing-room, rang for his servant and sent the man 
first, to go in turn to every member of the family and 
request each one to come thither, and then to call 
every domestic in the house to the presence of the 
master. 

While waiting for his orders to be obeyed, the old 
commodore -walked slowly up and down the floor, mut- 
tering to himself : 

“ I dare say one half of them already know the whole 
truth, and the other half shrewdly suspect it ! How- 


364 


Em's Husband. 


ever, I must make the announcement all the same, I 
suppose." 

In a few moments the ladies of the family began to 
drop in. First came Mrs. Catherine Bruce and Hermia ; 
next Mrs. Warde' and Belinda. 

The commodore requested them to sit down and wait 
for a few minutes longer. 

At length the household servants came, with faces 
full of interest Und curiosity. 

The old gentleman’s conjecture as to their knowledge 
and their suspicions was about half right. The crowd 
before him knew that something extraordinary, con- 
nected with a tramp, had occurred ; but they were far 
from knowing what it really was. 

They stood now, eagerly waiting for the master of the 
house to enlighten them. 

Commodore Bruce did this in a very few words : 

“ I have to announce to you joyful intelligence. My 
son, Mr. Leonidas Bruce, long supposed to have been 
lost in the wreck of the United States ship Eagle , has 
returned unexpectedly to-day. He is now in this house, 
as is also his wife, Emolyn, whom you have all heard of 
as the Lady of Edengarden. They are to remain here, 
I hope. Those among you who remember Mr. Bruce 
in his boyhood, shall have an opportunity of shaking 
hands with him after dinner. Later you shall hear 
more. This is all I have to tell you. No ! no demon- 
strations — not even congratulations yet ! I will have 
none — I — ” 

But before the commodore could utter another word, 
every arm went waving aloft over every head, and a 
unanimous — 

“ Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Hurrah !” burst from the crowd 
of servants. 

“ As if it were reasonable, or even possible, to prevent 


A Sudden Summons . 


365 


that !” whispered his sister Margaret, laying her hand 
soothingly on the arm of the exasperated commodore. 

The old man swallowed his rising wrath, and merely 
said to the offenders : 

“ Now, every man among you go quietly away to 
your duties ! Next Thursday — a week from to-day — 
being Hallow Eve, you shall all have a thundering blow- 
out in honor of this joyful occasion ! No ! No more 
hurrahing, you villains ! If there should be — ” 

“ Hurrah ! Hurrah ! ! Hurrah ! ! !” 

“ Begone !” said the commodore, with a stamp. 

And they hurried away making the welkin ring as 
they went with : 

“ Hurrah ! Hurrah ! ! Hurrah ! ! ! 

“You really cannot expect anything else, and you 
should not blame them,” said Mrs. Templeton, the 
peace-maker. 

The commodore relieved his feelings by striking his 
thick cane down heavily upon the floor. 

“ But now that the servants are gone, uncle, for 
Heaven's sake tell us all about this wonderful return,” 
exclaimed Hermia. 

“ Yes, pray do !” chorused all the other ladies. 

The old man looked at them mockingly for a space, 
and then said bluntly : 

“ I won’t ! I have had excitement enough for one 
day, and now I am going to my room to smoke. You’ll 
all see Lonny and his wife at dinner. Yet stay — in this 
connection I would add that the young girl, Emolyn 
Palmer, who was our inmate a few weeks ago, is now 
the cherished pet of the Lady of Edengarden, in con- 
sideration of which I have sent for her to come and 
join us at dinner, and she will probably remain our 
guest as long as her benefactress is pleased to stay. 
Now pray ask no more questions, my dear, for I have 


366 


Em’s Husband. 


no more explanations to make at present. Mrs. Warde, 
you look pale. I hope you are not indisposed.” 

“ Thanks, no ; lam as well as usual,” answered the 
widow, in a constrained voice. 

“ I am glad to hear it. I want every one to feel well 
on this happy day. Ladies, in good time you shall hear 
‘ all about it but for the present I must leave you and 
seek needful repose.” 

And so saying, with his ceremonious old bow, the 
commodore left the room. 

Mrs. Warde stepped away to hide her agitation that 
the news of Lonny’s return and the mention of his wife’s 
name had raised in her conscious soul. 

The other ladies remained for a few minutes, talking 
over the extraordinary event of the day, and then sepa- 
rated to go to their rooms and prepare a special toilet 
for the occasion. 

Meanwhile Commodore Bruce had sought the refuge 
of his library, dropped with a sigh of relief into his easy- 
chair, and delivered himself to repose. 

But his rest was of short duration. He had set too 
many wires in motion that day to be left long in quiet- 
ness. He was soon interrupted by the entrance of 
Ronald with Em., just arrived from Edengarden. 

They both entered the room looking so innocently 
and frankly happy, that the old man could not but 
receive them very cordially. 

“Well, Ronald, I never knew you to do an errand so 
quickly in all the days of my life before. I commend 
you, my lad,” he said, in good-humored raillery of the 
young lover. 

Then holding out his hand to Em., he smiled on her, 
saying : 

“ Come hither, my child, and kiss me. Now, am I not 
a good-natured old muff to let that young coxcomb have 


A Sudden Summons. 


367 


you, when I am so fond of you myself ?” he continued, 
as he put his arm around her waist and drew her to his 
side in a fatherly embrace. “ Say, am I not very, very 
good to the young puppy ?” 

“You are ‘very, very good’ to me, sir,” said Em., 
raising his withered hand to her lips. 

“To hi?n , Miss, to him. As for you, I do not know but 
that I am doing you a mischief in consenting to this 
marriage. But, there, I have consented and shall not 
retract. I suppose that fellow has told you so, and also 
everything else that has happened here to-day ?” 

“ Oh, yes, sir, and I am so glad and thankful that 
your son has returned. Oh ! if I could only tell you how 
glad and thankful,” earnestly exclaimed Em., as the 
tears rushed to her eyes. 

“ That tells me / And now I have something else to 
tell you. This dear, only son of mine is also the beloved 
husband of your benefactress, Em., — of your lovely 
Lady of Edengarden, Ronald !” exclaimed the commo- 
I dore. 

Both the young people opened their eyes in astonish- 
ment, and would have opened their lips in inquiry had 
not the commodore prevented them by nervously ex- 
claiming : 

“ No questions ! No comments ! You will find out 
everything in time. Ring the bell, Ronald.” 

The young man silently obeyed. 

The hall footman appeared. 

“ Send the girl Liza here,” said the old man. 

In a few moments the girl appeared. 

“ You waited on Miss Palmer when she was here 
before, did you not?” inquired her master. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Then show this young lady to the best spare room 


3 68 


Em's Husband. 


in the house, and make her comfortable,” said the com- 
modore. 

Em. kissed the old man’s hand, and followed the 

girl. 

“ Now, my lad, do you also go about your business ! 
I expect to have a row with your mother about consent- 
ing to this marriage ; but I guess I know how to per- 
suade her. And now I must smoke my pipe in peace.” 

“And doze, if you can, uncle ! Indeed, I hope you 
will,” said Ronald, as he turned to leave the room. 

“There’s but little time left for that before dinner,” 
muttered the commodore, as he settled for a nap. 

As Em. went up stairs, attended by Liza, she asked 
the girl : 

“ Don’t you think I might have the room in the attic 
that I had before ?” 

“ Surely, Miss Em., if you refers dat one ; but dere’s 
heap betters.” 

“ I prefer that one.” 

“ Now ain’t dat so funny !” exclaimed the girl. 

“ What funny ? My preferring the attic chamber to 
a finer one ?” inquired the guest. 

“ No, Miss Em., not dat ; but I’ll jes’ tell you. It 
was funny. Why, Miss Em., when you went away so 
suddint I did feel so lonesome ’dout you dat I mos' 
cried my eyes out. And den I cleaned up your room, 
and cleaned out de fire-place, and piled shavin’s and 
pine cones and pine sticks and hickory logs inter it, 
ready to light a fire at a minute’s warning, caze I ax 
myself maybe if I keeps de room ready for her, it will 
work on de sperrits in some ’sterious way, so she may 
come back ! And sure ’nough here you is, and your 
room all ready for yon. It is funny. Come in, Miss 
Em.,” concluded Liza, for they had now reached the 
attic landing and the chamber door. 


A Sudden Summons. 


369 


Liza entered first, took a match from the mantelpiece 
and lighted the combustibles under the hickory sticks 
across the andirons, and soon had a bright, blazing 
fire. 

Then she took Em.’s travelling-bag from her hands 
and began to unbutton her waterproof, which was 
fastened from her neck to her feet. 

When this was done, Em. threw off her cloak, and 
unpinned a looped skirt and shook it down, and 
appeared in a simple but elegant blue silk dress, 
trimmed on the bosom and sleeves with pure Valen- 
ciennes lace. 

“ Why, Miss Em. !” cried the little maid, in glad sur- 
prise. “If that ain’t jes like Cinderella !” 

“ Lieutenant Bruce told me there was to be company 
at dinner, and so I put on the best dress I owned — a 
present from my benefactress — to grace it,” she 
explained, as she went to the glass to re-arrange her 
golden auburn hair. 

“ Let me run to the deservatory for some white roses. 
Miss Em., one for your head an’ one for your breas’. I 
won’t be gone long !” exclaimed Liza, dashing out of 
the room without waiting for an answer. 

She soon returned, bringing a bunch of fresh, half 
open white roses, which Em. after thanking the girl 
warmly, arranged in her hair and on her bosom. 

She had just put these finishing touches to her toilet 
when the dinner-bell rang. 

“ That’s the last bell, Miss Em. The first one rang 
half an hour ago, 'fore you 'rived, I reckon,” said Liza. 

“ I am quite ready,” said the young lady, as she 
passed out of the room and went down stairs. 

On entering the drawing-room she found the family 
assembled there. A group near the upper end fixed 
her attention. 


370 


Em'.s Husband. 


A tall, dark, handsome man, whom she instantly 
recognized by his portrait to be Leonidas Bruce, stood 
with the Lady of Edengarden leaning on his arm. Near 
them stood Commodore Bruce and his sister. Not far 
off were all the other members of the family circle. 

As Em. entered, her benefactress dropped the arm 
of the gentleman on whom she had been leaning, and 
advanced to meet her youthful protegee. 

“ Come, my love, you have heard how happy we are 
all rendered by Mr. Bruce’s return. I wish to present 
you to him,” said the lady, as she drew the girl’s arm 
within her own and led her straight up to the gentle- 
man. 

“ This is m5’ dear young friend, Emolyn Palmer, Mr. 
Bruce, and I know you will love her for her own sake 
as well as for mine.” 

“ She is enough like you to be your sister. I am very 
glad to see her,” replied Lonny, as he offered his hand 
to the timid child before him. 

“ I hope you will let me say how rejoiced I am at 
your return and at your happiness,” said Em., shyly. 

“ Thank you, my dear girl. I hope you will be as 
happy with us both as you have been with your friend 
here.” 

“ Oh, indeed I know I shall be even much happier,” 
replied the girl ; and if she could have spoken her 
: whole thoughts, she would have added : “ For — I do 

not understand it, but — I love you just as much as I do 
love her.” 

Em.’s lips did not utter this, but her radiant face said 
a great deal more. 

Then she received and returned the greetings of the 
other ladies. 

“Well, we are waiting for Dr. Willet and Mrs. 
Warde ?” said the commodore. 


A Sudden Summons. 


37i 


“ Dr. Willethas not yet returned from the Wilderness, 
and Mrs. Warde is too much indisposed to join us. We 
need not wait for either,” said Mrs. Catherine Bruce. 

“Very well, then, we won’t ! Leonidas, bring Emo- 
lyn in to dinner. Ronald, take Miss Palmer. Cath- 
erine, allow me,” said the commodore, as he gave his 
arm to his sister-in-law and led the way to the dining- 
room, where the housekeeper had laid a sumptuous 
feast in honor of the newly-arrived. 

That was a memorable dinner. Every one enjoyed 
it, and no one more than the reunited couple and the 
young lovers. 

When the cloth was removed a few toasts were drank 
— to the returned traveller, to the reunited husband 
and wife, amd finally to the commodore. 

When the ladies rose to leave the table, the gentle- 
men did not, on this occasion, linger over their wine, 
but followed them at once to the drawing-room. 

It was nine o’clock, and they were at the height of 
their enjoyment of this family reunion, when the clat- 
ter of a horse’s hoofs was heard rapidly galloping up 
the rocky road leading to the gate of the yard. 

Before any one could hazard a conjecture on the sub- 
ject the hall door was opened, and the voice of Dr. 
Willet heard, in excited tones, demanding : 

“ Where is your master ?” 

The footman was heard to reply : 

“ In the drawing-room, sir.” 

On this Commodore Bruce started up, exclaiming : 

“ What now ?” and he left the room. 

He met the doctor full tilt at the door. 

“ Commodore Bruce, there is not a moment to be 
lost ! I ordered the carriage as I came through the 
stable yard !” 


37 2 


Em.'s Husband. 


“ But what is the matter ?” demanded the commodore 
of the excited speaker. 

“ I have a most startling and important revelation 
from the dying woman, Ann Whitlock, who has partly 
recovered her speech. It is a revelation that must be 
received under oath in presence of a magistrate. It is 
in your capacity as a justice of the peace that I want 
you at the bedside of this dying woman.” 

“ I will be ready in five minutes,” replied the com- 
modore, with his old martial promptitude. 

“ And not only yourself, but your son, Leonidas 
Bruce, his wife, Emolyn, and the young girl whom we 
have known only as Em. Palmer.” 

“ What ! Do you mean to say that they must go, 
too !” 

“ Yes.” 

“ But what have they to do with this ?” 

“ Everything ! Everything connected with their 
honor, prosperity and happiness.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

A STARTLING STORY. 

If hearty sorrow 

Be a sufficient ransom for offence, 

I tender it here ; I do as truly suffer 
, As e’er I did commit. 

Shakespeare. 

Great was the wonder in the drawing-room when Dr. 
Willet entered, and after a sweeping bow that took in 
the whole circle, went straight up to Leonidas Bruce, 
and said : 


A Startling Story. 


373 


“ I am really sorry to break up this ‘ goodlie com- 
panies bnt ‘necessity has no law,’ and this particular 
case admits of no compromise. Mr. Bruce, I am here 
to ask you, your wife, and this young lady, Miss 
Emolyn, to came with me to the deathbed of my 
patient.” 

“Who is it ?” inquired the astonished man. 

“ Mrs. Ann Whitlock, the old woman whom 1 have 
been attending for the last few weeks at the Wilderness 
Manor-house ; the same one to whom I was so sud- 
denly called again this afternoon.” 

“ Oh, yes. Well, poor soul, if she is dying, I am sure 
I’m very sorry for her ; but I can’t help it. I don’t 
know her the least in the world. Why, I have but just 
got home, you see ; and I don’t know — ” 

“ Oh, of course you don’t know anything at all about 
it ; but your wife and this young lady both know the 
old woman who has sent for them to her deathbed, and 
as they will not disregard her dying request, perhaps 
you will elect to go with them. Your presence is desir- 
able, but not absolutely necessary.” 

“ Oh, of course I will go. Since these ladies were 
acquainted with the poor old creature I can partly under- 
stand her desire to see them,” said Leonidas Bruce, 
good-naturedly. 

“ Then, as no time is to be lost, let me entreat the 
ladies to get ready for their ride immediately. The 
carriage is ordered,” said the doctor. 

Full of conjecture as to the cause of the summons, 
Mrs. Bruce arose, drew Emolyn’s arm within her own, 
and left the drawing-room. 

As the two women separated in the hall, the one to go 
to the parlor chamber, the other to go to the attic, Mrs. 
Bruce noticed that Em.’s eyes were full of tears. 

“ What ! weeping, my love ?” she exclaimed. 


374 


Ein!s Husband. 


“ Ah ! she was very good to me. Always very good 
to me,” sighed the girl. 

“ ‘ But the angels weep when a babe is born, 

And sing when an old man dies.’ 

You should not weep for the death of the aged, my 
dear. What can she want with us, Em. ? Ah ! I un- 
derstand how she may want you ; but met Long ago, 
she nursed my uncle, it is true, yet I scarcely ever knew 
her.” 

“ I think, dear lady, that, as she knows you have me, 
she only wishes to see us both together, and perhaps 
commend me to your kindness. She need not do that, of 
course, but she was always very good to me.” 

“ That is it !” exclaimed the lady, and then she hurried 
off to her room, while Em. ran up to the attic. 

In the meantime, the ladies left in the drawing-room, 
Mrs. Catherine Bruce, and Miss Belinda Warde, came 
around to Dr Willet for an explanation of this sudden 
night summons. 

The good physician parried their questions as politely 
as he could, and was still evading them when the door 
opened and Commodore Bruce came in, all booted and 
spurred for riding, and exclaimed : 

“ Well, Doctor, I am ready, you see ! As you have 
ridden so much to-day, I shall give you my seat in the 
carriage, old friend, and take your horse. No, now ! 
Not one word of objection ! I will have it so. Besides 
I have ordered a second horse for Leonidas, so that I 
and my son may trot side by side, as we used to do 
when I was younger and he was smaller,” added the 
commodore, as he drew on his gloves. 

As he spoke, Leonidas Bruce, equipped for riding, 
accompanied by his cousin, Ronald, re-entered the room. 

The two ladies soon followed— Mrs. Leonidas Bruce 


A Startling Story. 


375 


in the dress she had worn on her short journey from 
Edengarden to The Breezes, and Em. in her boat cloak 
and hood. 

“ Well, we are all ready, I believe ?” inquired the 
doctor. 

The other members of the party assented, and after 
bidding good -evening to the three ladies and the one 
gentleman left behind, they went out the front door to 
the place where the carriage and the saddle horses were 
awaiting them. 

Dr. Willet handed the two ladies into the carriage, 
then followed, and took his seat at their side. 

Leonidas Bruce assisted his father to mount his horse, 
then leaped into his own saddle, and rode after the car- 
riage, which had already started.' 

The commodore was soon by his son’s side. 

And so they wound down the road leading down the 
mountain side and through the forest to the back road, 
and thence to the Wilderness Manor-house. 

There was no moon, but the sky was perfectly clear, 
and the innumerable stars shone with a sparkling bril- 
liancy that compensated for her absence. 

The three passengers in the carriage spoke but little. 
Dr. Willet went to sleep. It was very rude of him to 
do so, but he was aged and tired. Mrs. Leonidas Bruce 
was absorbed in reverie. Em. was silently weeping 
and stealthily wiping away her tears. Em. had scarcely 
realized how much she loved the uncouth old creature 
who had been her nurse and companion all her young 
life and until within a few weeks. Yet these were tears 
of tender compassion rather than of bitter sorrow ; tears, 
too, which Em.’s cheerful faith taught her were more 
natural than rational, since “ death is but an orderly 
step in life,” and to die out of this sphere is to be born 
in a higher one. 


376 


Em's Husband. 


The two men enjoyed their ride. Neither of them took 
any more than a kindly interest in the dying woman 
they were going to see, so they talked of everything 
else than of her of Lonny’s shipwreck, and rescue, 
and capture ; of his experiences in the long years of his 
captivity ; of his flight and escape, and his voyage home 
on the French ship, etc., etc., etc. 

All these adventures Lonny had already related. 
But now, at his father’s request, he went over them 
again, as he was destined many times to repeat them at 
intervals for his father, his father’s friends and — their 
friends, for many years to come. 

It was ten o’clock when they drew near a pile of dark 
buildings in the valley below them, which they recog- 
nized as the Wilderness Manor. 

In a few minutes they were at the gates opening into 
the back court-yard under the shadow of the mountain, 
this being the nearer approach to the house from the 
direction of “ The Breezes.” 

Here John Palmer and his boys waited to receive 
them. 

John led the party up to the house, while the boys 
took away the horses to the rear stables. 

At the door of the house Susan Palmer received her 
late visitors. 

She had been prepared by Dr. Willet who had 
informed her of the unexpected return of the long 
missing Leonidas Bruce, so she showed no surprise at 
his appearance, and under the serious circumstances 
gave him only the general welcome extended to the 
whole party. 

“ Walk in here, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, open- 
ing the door of a well-warmed and lighted parlor, 
where a fine fire of hickory logs blazed in the broad 


A Startling Story . 


377 


fireplace, and two tall “ mold ” candles, in taller brass 
candlesticks, stood on the high mantelshelf. 

“ Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable, 
while I take Em. up to see the poor soul, for so she 
desired me to do first of all,” added Mrs. Palmer, as she 
placed chairs near the fire for her guests. 

When they were seated she beckoned Em., who arose 
to follow her, then bowed to her guests, and left the 
room. 

As soon as they reached the hall outside, Susan Pal- 
mer astonished Em. by suddenly throwing her arms 
around the girl’s neck, bursting into tears, and exclaim- 
ing : 

“ Oh ! my child, you’ll love us all the same ! You’ll 
love us all the same ! You’ll love us all the same !” -v 

“ Dear mother, what is the matter ?” inquired the 
girl, in alarm. 

“Oh ! Em., say you will ! Say you will ! ! 

“Will what? Ill do all you wish, dear mother, only 
tell me what!” exclaimed the frightened girl. 

“ Love us just as much ! Just as much, Em. ! Oh, 
just as much !” sobbed the woman. 

“ My own dear mother,” murmured Em., caressing 
and soothing the excited creature, although she herself 
was frightened half out of her senses at the agitation 
she could not comprehend — “ my own dear mother, I 
love you and shall always love you. Compose yourself. 
Do not doubt me. Is it because Commodore Bruce has 
consented that his son shall marry me ? Have you 
already heard that, and do you think it could make any 
difference in my love for you ? It could not, dear 
mother, not one bit !” 

“ Oh ! no, Em., no ! It isn’t that. I’m not such a fool 
as to take on so about that. Of course I knew you 
would marry some time. Besides, I hadn’t even heard 


37 § 


Em's Husband. 


of it. Oh ! no, Em., it is not that ! It is worse than 
that. Heaven forgive me, it is better than that. No, 
it is worse. Oh, Em. ! Em. ! Em. !” 

And Susan Palmer fell to weeping. 

“ My own dear, dear mother, I never knew you to be * 
so nervous in my life before. Surely you are not well. 
Oh, what is the matter ?” exclaimed the girl, her alarm 
rising to terror. 

“You’ll hear soon enough, Em ! You’ll hear soon 
enough ! But oh, do promise me you’ll love us all the 
same, all the same, whatever you hear !” said Susan 
Palmer, with a great sobbing sigh, as she released the 
girl and wiped her own eyes. 

“ Won’t you tell me what it is, mother, dear ?” 

“ No, Em. It ain’t for me to tell you. But oh ! you 
will still call me ‘ mother,’ and poor, dear, good, good 
John, who is so fond of you, ‘ father ’ — won’t you, Em.?” 
she pleaded. 

Em. could only look at the distressed woman in silent 
dismay — thinking of approaching illness, fever, delirium. 

“You know you will call the gentleman and lady papa 
and mamma, because children in high life call their par- 
ents that. But you will call me and poor old John plain 
: mother and father as you always did — won’t you, Em.?” 

“ She is distressing herself about my possible mar- 
riage and my future mother and father-in-law,” thought 
Em. ; and then she answered earnestly : 

“ Ahmys , dear mother. Always, believe me ! I will 
never call any one else father or mother but you and 
father !” 

“ That’s my loving heart ! That’s my sweet, loving 
heart ! You can call them ‘ papa’ and ‘mamma,’ you 
know, and they’ll like that just as well, and even better, 
for that is fashionable and elegant, and polite, and so 
on. But oh, Em. !” — with another burst of emotion — 


A Startling Story. 


379 


“it is just as if you were dead to us ! Just as if you 
were dead ! I wish — oh, I do wish that we had taught 
you to call us ‘daddy ’ and ‘ mammy,’ for then I should 
know you would never call any fine lady or gentleman 
that. Now, come up stairs, child, for I have kept you 
down here too long already. But oh, Em. ! It is just 
like closing down the coffin-lid over your face to let you 
go now ! We part now, we will never meet again in the 
same way, Em.,” she exclaimed, as she began slowly to 
climb the stairs, followed closely by the troubled and 
bewildered girl. 

Not a word more was spoken between them until 
they reached the attic landing, when Mrs. Palmer 
opened the door of the sick room and said : 

“ Go in there, Em. ! Go in alone ! Oh ! my Lord ! 
It is like lowering you into the grave ! We will meet 
again ! But not the same ! Oh, nevermore the same.” 
She sighed as she sent Em. alone into the room and 
gently closed the door after her. 

The sick chamber, as I mentioned once before, was a 
large upper room. It was now in obscurity, the smould- 
ering hard wood-fire in the fire-place, and the rustic 
lamp on the mantle-shelf giving but little light. 

Em. went up to the old-fashioned four-poster at the 
upper end of the room, where Dr. Willet had already 
taken his place, and old Monica was waiting. The lat- 
ter gave way as Em. approached the bed. 

The dying woman was lying very still, on her back, 
with her wasted face level on the pillow, and her skel- 
eton hands folded on her breast. 

“ Speak to her,” said Dr. Willet. 

“Aunty Whitlock,” said Em., gently, bending over 
her. 

The woman sighed, moaned, and opened her eye$, 


Em.’s Husband. 


380 


“ Aunty Whitlock, how do you do ?” inquired Em. 

The poor creature made several ineffectual efforts to 
articulate, and finally said, in an imperfect way : 

“ 1 — am — getting — well — fast." 

“ Is she delirious ?” inquired Em., in a whisper and 
with a startled look at the doctor. 

“ Oh, no, it is her way of speaking. She means that 
she is going — dying. Hush ! She is trying to speak to 
you again. Bend low — bend your ear to her lips.” 

The girl obeyed. 

“ Em.,” muttered the woman, so imperfectly that the 
listener could scarcely recognize her own name. “ Em., 
my child.” 

“ Yes, Aunty Whitlock. I am listening — I hear.” 

“Have I been — good to you — my dear ?” she asked, 
in tones so faint and muffled that Em. scarcely gathered 
their meaning, but rather divined it, as she answered : 

“ Very, very good to me always, dear Aunty Whit- 
lock.” 

“ I — did — save — your life.” 

“ Yes, I know you did, dear aunty ! Mother has 
often told me you did.” 

A cloud of trouble passed over the face of the dying 
woman, and her lips writhed in their efforts to utter 
the next words, which Em. bent her ear and strained 
her sense to hear. 

“ Yes — but not in that way — not as she thinks — did I 
save your life.” 

There was silence and quick breathing for a few 
minutes, and then, with an effort, she resumed : 

“ When — you know all — forgive — because — I did save 
your life.” 

Em. stooped and kissed the old woman, and laid her 
fresh, living cheek against the faded and dying one, 

f ‘ How, Doctor !” panted the wopian, 


A Startling Story. 


381 


Dr. Willet approached and bent over her. 

“ Let them come — quick — I’m passing.” 

The doctor administered a restorative, and then left 
the room to bring the Bruces to the bedside of the fast 
sinking woman. 

Em. remained standing by her, rubbing her cold 
hands. 

In a few moments the doctor re-entered the room, 
bearing two lighted candles in his hand, and followed 
by Commodore Bruce, Leonidas and Emolyn and John 
and Susan Palmer. 

The doctor drew a little stand to the bedside and 
placed the two candles upon it, and laid a folded paper 
beside them. Then he beckoned Emolyn Bruce to 
appear. 

The lady put off her bonnet and shawl and went up 
to the bedside, closely followed by her husband. 

The lady bent over the dying woman, saying : 

“ I am very sorry to see you in this way, Mrs. Whit- 
lock. Do you know me ?” 

“ You are Emolyn Wyndeworth — I saved your child’s 
life — I was always good to her — she will tell you so her- 
self.” 

“ What does she mean ?” inquired Leonidas, who had 
caught only one or two words of this faintly-muttered 
speech. 

Emolyn shook her head in ctoubt, and Doctor Willet 
said : 

“ Hush ! You will know soon. Let me say a few 
words. When I came to this woman this afternoon she 
made a startling confession to me in the presence of 
John and Susan Palmer. I took the statement down 
from her dying lips, lest if I had delayed to do so it 
might have been too late. I took her mark and the signa- 
tures of the two Palmer’s as witnesses. I wish to have 


Em’s Husband. 


382 


her acknowledge this confession to be the truth, under 
oath. Commodore Bruce, will you administer the 
oath ?” 

The old commodore, much wondering what he should 
hear next, said : 

“ Will you read it to her first ?” 

“No, there will not be time. I will read it after- 
wards.” 

.“ Lift her up, then, somebody.” 

John Palmer, being the strongest “body” present, 
went to the head of the bed, lifted the dying woman to 
a sitting posture, and supported her in his firm arms, 
with her back resting against his chest. 

“ This is her written statement,” said Dr. Willet, 
placing the folded paper in the hands of the commo- 
dore. 

“ Make — haste,” panted the woman, with difficulty. 

The doctor poured out and administered a stimulant, 
which partially revived her. 

“ Do you know what you are about to do ?” inquired 
the commodore. 

“ Yes — swear to — the truth of — my statement,” 
gasped the woman, 

Commodore Bruce, in his capacity of magistrate, 
then administered the oath and exhibited the written 
statement with its signatures, which she recognized and 
acknowledged under oath. 

“ There ! That will do ! This necessary disturb- 
ance has shaken the last sands of her life. Leave her 
now to repose, and follow me down to the drawing- 
room, where I will read to you all this strange confes- 
sion,” said the doctor. 

John Palmer left his perch on the head of the bed 
and gently lowered the head of the dying woman to the 
pillow. 


A Startling Story. 


383 


Susan tenderly adjusted the covering around her, and 
beckoned old Monica to come and resume her watch 
by the bed. 

Dr. Willet took up the two lighted candles and led 
the way from the room, leaving the place in the twilight 
shadow and stillness best fitted for the sufferer. 

The whole party repaired to the drawing-room, and 
seated themselves around the large circular centre- 
table, upon which Dr. Willet had placed the candles 
and the document. 

When the little bustle, incident upon this movement, 
subsided, the doctor took up the paper and began to 
read the statement aloud to his almost breathless audi- 
ence. 

And then and there the astonished family of Commo- 
dore Bruce learned a secret they had never even sus- 
pected before, though doubtless my intelligent readers 
have divined it long ago. 

The attested statement of the dying woman showed 
how she, Ann Whitlock, sick nurse, while in the employ- 
ment of Mrs. Malvina Warde, at Green Point, being 
tempted of the devil, did appropriate to herself certain 
valuable jewels belonging to the family, and being 
caught in the act by Mrs. Warde, did thenceforward fall, 
body and soul, into the power of that lady, who, by 
threats of prosecution and imprisonment did compel 
her, Ann Whitlock, to commit great sins. How, to 
effect her purpose, Mrs. Warde procured for Ann Whit- 
lock, the position of sick nurse in the Women’s Hospital 
in the city. How, on the thirtieth of April, 18 — , she 
Ann Whitlock, being driven of the devil in the shape of 
Malvina, procured certain drugs to be administered to 
Emolyn Wyndeworth, then living at Green Point, 
which drugs hastened the illness of that lady. How, 
on the morning of the first of May, while it was yet 


3^4 


Em's Husband. 


dark, and the household all in bed, she, being secretly 
admitted by Mrs. Warde to the sick chamber of Emolyn 
Wyndeworth, had, with the assistance of Malvina 
Warde, stolen away the new-born, healthy infant 
daughter of Emolyn Wyndeworth, and secretly con- 
veyed it to the Women’s Hospital, and adroitly changed 
it for the still-born child of Susan Palmer, a patient in 
the ward then under her care. How, leaving the living 
infant by the sleeping woman, she had brought back 
the dead one and laid it on the bed with Emolyn 
Wyndeworth. How ever since that fatal night she had 
so suffered with remorse that nothing but the one 
thought that Mrs. Warde would certainly have de- 
stroyed the living child, if she herself had not substi- 
tuted the dead one for it, could bring her any comfort ; 
but that she compensated the child for the loss of its 
real mother by giving her to the best woman she knew 
in the world, and by being as good to her as she pos- 
sibly could be. Finally, that she had meant to tell the 
truth on her deathbed, when she should be out of the 
power of her demoniac mistress. 

That was all. Fortunately not a word had been said 
about the trial. 

«, 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

CONCLUSION. 

Thou art our daughter, never loved as now, 

Thou gentlest maid, thou child of purity. 

Maturin. 

Fortunately, I say, not a word had been said of the 
trial which had blighted so many years of Emolyn 
Wyndeworth’s life. 


Conclusion. 


3^5 


The reading of Ann Whitlock’s confession was fol- 
lowed by a deep silence of some moments, during 
which nothing was heard but the low sound of Susan 
Palmer’s weeping. 

At length Em. arose softly from her seat beside old 
Commodore Bruce, and went over and seated herself 
beside Susan, put her arms around the poor woman’s 
neck, kissed he|;, and murmured : 

* “ So that was what you meant, dear mother ! How 

strange it all is! But do not weep so ! I will love you 
all the same, dear, dear mother. Are seventeen years 
of tenderest motherhood to be blotted out by one hour’s 
revelation ? Oh, no, no, no, my own dear mother, no ! 
You and I have loved and worked and suffered too long 
and too closely together for that—” 

“And John, too!” sobbed Susan. “ Oh, .poor John ! 
You were his favorite child, Em. He was so fond of 
lyou !” 

“ Yes, and dear father, too ! He is so fond of me, 
mother. Ah ! don’t weep so ! Indeed, I love you — 
more than ever !” 

“ Oh, Em., I know it is so selfish and so mean in me 
to cr3 r so hard about anything that brings so much good 
to you, but I can’t help — help — help it !” sobbed Susan. 

“ No, it is not selfish, dear mother. You haven’t a 
selfish vein in your body. It is natural. Didn't you 
cry hard when you parted with your children who went 
to heaven, though you knew they were so much better 
off ? And don’t everybody do so ?” 

“Ye — yes, and this is almost the same, Em. Almost 
as hard for me !” 1 

“ Only I wish you wouldn’t, dear mother, for I shall 
be just the same to you as I was before, and come and 
help you to darn the stockings, or wash the dishes, just * 
as I did before. And if you don’t scold me just as much 


3 86 


Em. ' s II i island. 


as you do the other children and — and father,” added 
Em., with a peculiar smile, “ I shall think you don’t 
love me half as much as you do them.” 

‘‘We always loved the child that has gone to heaven 
the best, Em , and you will be to me like that. You are 
a good girl, Em., it’s me that’s mean and selfish to cry 
about your good fortune, and begrudge you to that poor 
lady who has suffered .so much in this world, and who 
hasn’t got no other child, but only you, while I have so 
many girls and boys ; and another one a coming, as sure 
as you live, Em. — another one a coming. But don’t you 
say a word about that— it is awful ! Now, there, child, 
go speak to 3^our mamma. She is very patient to wait 
for you so long. I’ll go and comfort John by telling 
him what you say. Oh , poor John !” 

And Susan Palmer arose and went out of the room to 
look for John, who had left the scene immediately at the 
end of the reading, to conceal all outward signs of his 
own inner trouble. 

Meanwhile, the very first movement of Em. to join 
her foster-mother having broken the spell of silence 
that had followed the reading of the confession, the 
other members of the family gathering had fallen to 
whispering, exclaiming, or questioning Dr. Willet. 

Em.’s first impulse to join them was checked by a 
feeling of diffidence, and she remained for some 
moments seated where Susan Palmer had left her, wait- 
ing the pleasure of her elders. 

At length she glanced towards her parents. 

They were sitting talking earnestly together in a low 
voice, seemingly quite absorbed in each other, though 
they had frequently looked across at their daughter 
without her consciousness of their regards. 

* Commodore Bruce and Dr. Willet sat together at 
some little distance from the other two, and somewhat 


Conclusion. 


387 


nearer to Em., very gravely conversing, their gray 
heads bent closely together, the doctor pointing his 
arguments, whatever they were, with his right fore- 
finger on his left palm ; the commodore listening 
solemnly, nodding from time to time, and taking count- 
less pinches of snuff. 

A few words of their discourse necessarily reached 
Em/s ears. 

“ He must hear it some time or other,” said Dr. Willet. 

“ True, true, most true ” — from the commodore, with 
a nod, a sigh, and a huge pinch of snuff. 

“ He will bear it better now, perhaps, than at any 
other time.” 

“ Humph, perhaps, you know best.” 

“ If you authorize me, I will myself fake the dis- 
agreeable task off your hands and be his informant.” 

“Yes, yes, Doctor, do! I could never tell him 
myself ! Never.” 

While the two old men were still conversing, Em. 
turned her eyes from them and fixed them upon her 
parents. 

At the same instant Emolyn Bruce looked up and 
met her daughter’s gaze. 

The lady smiled and opened her arms. 

Em. arose and crossed the room and gave herself to 
that fond embrace. 

“ Now we know the reason why we loved each other 
so, my darling, don’t we ?” murmured the lady, as she 
folded her daughter to her bosom. 

“ Yes, dear mamma, yes, for my heart was drawn to 
you from the very first moment I saw you. I longed 
for you to love me then,” answered Em., returning love 
for love and kiss for kiss. 

“ Your papa, my dear,” whispered Emolyn, in a low 
tone. 


E m. 's Hush a nd. 


388 


Em. raised her head from the lady's bosom to see 
bending over them both, the dark, handsome man 
whose very portrait she had worshiped long before she 
had ever seen himself. 

“ Have you no place left in your heart for me, little 
daughter ?” inquired the stranger, as he drew the girl 
to his bosom and pressed his lips to hers. 

“ I loved you long before I ever saw you, dear papa,’’ 
whispered Em., half shyly, half fondly. 

“ How is that, my little girl ? You loved me before 
you ever saw me ?” inquired the pleased young papa. 

“ Yes — and even before I ever heard of you,” said 
Em. 

“ Explain,” said the object of this strange affection, 
with a smile and a caress. 

“ Well, I found your portrait in the attic at 4 The 
Breezes,’ and I set it up in my room as an object of 
worship, having been struck with it before I knew to 
whom it belonged.” 

“ Who will say now that there is no instinct in 
natural affection ?” demanded Leonidas. 

That question was unanswerable ; but after a little 
while Em. turned to her mamma and asked another. 

“ So it was for your lost child you always provided a 
yearly outfit of dainty clothing ?” 

“Yes, love ; it was a fond, foolish fancy of mine ; but 
not without benefit to others, since at the end of every 
year I gave away the raiment to those who needed it.” 

At this moment Dr. Willet came up to the group, 
and laying his hand on the shoulder of the last speaker, 
said gravel)^ : 

“ The commodore, Mr. Bruce, has authorized me to 
make a communication to you, which should no longer 
be withheld. Will you come with me into another 
room ?” 


Conclusion. 


3 S 9 


The gentleman so addressed at once arose and fol- 
lowed the doctor, who took him into the disused dining- 
room of the old house, closed and locked the door, and 
then and there told him the terrible story of the false 
accusation and the trial to which his young wife had 
been subjected in his absence. 

Leonidas was frightfully agitated while listening. 
He strode up and down the floor, most bitterly reproach- 
ing himself, groaning, weeping, as only brave men can 
weep, and bursting into exclamations of pity, rage, 
remorse. 

It took all Dr. Willet’s skill and experience to reduce 
the fearfully excited man to anything like calmness 
and rationality. 

“The dying woman was but a weak tool in this 
diabolical work ! She has done what she could to 
atone for her share in it, and now she is beyond the 
reach of punishment. But Malvina Warde ! that fiend 
in human shape ! She shall be prosecuted to the 
utmost extent of the law ! I will spend every dollar I 
am worth to engage the best counsel to be had, to send 
her to the State Prison.” 

“ Leonidas, the wretched woman is a family connec- 
tion ! You could not punish her without — ” began the 
doctor ; but Bruce interrupted him in a voice of thunder: 

“ Don’t tell me about family credit, Dr. Willet ! If 
she were my sister I should send her to the State 
Prison for such a cause !” 

The doctor ceased to expostulate, thinking it best to 
let the infuriated man rage himself to exhaustion. 

Presently, however, Leonidas Bruce came up to Dr. 
Willet and said : 

“ Doctor, if it had not been for you, Emolyn, poor 
Emolyn, could never have lived through that terrible 
ordeal. You, with your constant charity, your wisdom, 


390 


E m.'s Husband. 


and your medical skill, bore her up, and sustained her 
in mind and body, or she must have sunk and perished 
in that fiercy furnace of affliction. Doctor ! so long as 
I may live in this world — ay ! and in the next — I shall 
never forget your invaluable services, never cease to 
remember them with glowing gratitude. I should have 
expressed this to you before, for it is as true as truth ; 
but the thought of that fiendish woman’s work put 
everything else out of my head. But, Doctor, believe 
me — ” 

“ Say no more, my dear friend. I have told you this 
tragic story to forestall any false or garbled account 
you might possibly receive of it. Now, my dear 
Leonidas, I advise you never to speak of it again, but 
to forget it as fast as you can.” 

(“ After I have sent that fiend in female form to the 
State Prison,” said Lonny to himself.) 

“Now then, calm yourself and clear your brow, and 
let us go back to the ladies lest they should think we 
are engaged here in some conspiracy.” 

And they returned together to the parlor. 

By this time it was midnight, and the moon was up. 

The old commodore, resisting all John Palmer’s 
hospitable entreaties to spend the night at the Manor 
House, and declaring that he never slept out of his own 
bed if he could help it, ordered the carriage and the 
saddle horses to be brought to the door that he and his 
party might return to The Breezes. 

“ Mamma, dearest,” whispered Em., coming to the 
side of her beautiful lady mother — “ mamma, dearest, 
leave me here for a few days with my poor mother , till 
she gets used to thinking of this change. Her heart is 
almost broken, mamma. You will leave me here a 
little while ?” 

“ Yes, tender soul, I will leave you here to comfort 


Conclusion. 


39 1 


your ‘ poor mother.’ My own heart bleeds for that ‘ poor 
mother.’ I will leave you with her for the present. It 
will not be for long, however ; Susan’s own sense of 
right will cause her to bring you to me very soon.” 

John and Susan Palmer were touched even to tears 
when they learned that Em. was to be left with them 
for the present. 

“Just when he has returned and they have found her, 
and the lady so fond of her even before she knew who 
the child was !” whimpered Susan, drying her eyes on 
her apron. 

“ ‘ Sicli is life,’ ” said John, in lack of anything else to 
say, and never had he quoted his favorite scrap of phil- 
osophy more out of place. 

When the commodore and his party were entering 
the carriage and mounting the horses, Susan Palmer 
and Em. stood with the lantern to light them. 

When they had gone, Susan still lingered as if spell- 
bound to the spot. 

“What is the matter, mother dear ?” inquired the girl. 

“ I was thinking, Em., that, after all, my poor baby 
did die.” 

“ Oh, dear mother, don’t use that word that you 
have so often told me isn’t true. The little baby didn’t 
die. It went to heaven with your other children, and 
instead of the baby on earth, you have another angel in 
heaven — an angel daughter as much fairer and brighter 
than she could have been on earth, as — look up, dear 
mother ! — as that beautiful, brilliant star you see over- 
head is fairer and brighter than this dull lantern we 
hold.” 

When they re-entered the house, Em. said ; 

“ I am going upstairs to send old Aunt Monica to 
bed, and to take her place by poor Aunty Whitlock. I 
can never believe she was wicked at heart.” 


39 2 


Em's Husband. 


Meanwhile, Commodore Bruce and his party pursued 
their moonlight journey home, where they arrived about 
two o’clock in the morning. 

To their surprise they found the family all up and 
the house lighted above and below. 

“ They must have set up for us. It was foolish for 
them all to sit up for us,” said the old commodore, as 
he led the way into the house. 

They were met in the drawing-room by Mrs. Tem- 
pleton. 

“ Did you meet the messenger ?” inquired that lady. 

“ No ; what messenger ?” 

“ Aleck was sent to the Wilderness to tell you.” 

“ What r 

“ Malvina Warde is dead.” 

“ DEAD !” echoed the whole party in consternation. 

“ Yes.” 

“ When ?” 

“ How did it happen ?” 

“ It seems that she did not sleep well, and about an 
hour ago, hearing the clock strike one, and hearing the 
family still stirring below, she woke up her daughter, 
who was sleeping beside her, and asked what kept the 
family up so late. Belinda replied that they were wait- 
ing for the commodore and his party, who had gone 
to the Wilderness Manor-house to see the dying woman, 
Ann Whitlock. Whereupon Mrs. Warde got out of be'd 
and went across the room, it was thought to procure a 
glass of water. In coming back to the bed she fell 
heavily to the floor. Belinda sprung out of bed and 
ran to her mother’s help, and raised her head from the 
floor. But she was quite dead.” 

“ She had organic disease of the heart. It might 
have been expected,” said Dr. Willet curtly. 


Conclusion . 


393 


“ Vengeance is mine, and I will repay, saith the Lord,” 
reverently murmured Leonidas Bruce, raising his hat. 

Whether Malvina Warde died of heart disease or of 
prussic-acid self-administered, can never now be known. 
Her remains lie in the family burial ground in the 
Wilderness Manor, beside those of her tool and victim, 
Ann Whitlock, who penitently and peacefully expired 
the same night, with her hand clasped in that of her 
beloved foster-child, Em. 

Belinda Warde was mercifully spared the knowledge 
of her mother’s crime. Immediately after the funeral 
she accepted the invitation of Mrs. Delaney Fanning, 
and went to make her home with that lady at beautiful 
“ Belle Plains,” until her marriage the next year to a 
middle-aged colonel of marines. 

Susan Palmer fully justified Emolyn’s faith in her 
sense of right. After keeping Em. for a few days, she 
voluntarily brought the girl to The Breezes, and will- 
ingly and cheerfully surrendered her to the charge of 
her rightful parents. 

“ We bring up our darter’s in care and toil, and if we 
don’t lose ’em by death, we’re most sure to lose ’em by 
marriage. So what dif’ence do it make anyway, Susan, 
my dear, when ‘Sich is life?’” said John, when his 
wife came back without his favorite child. 

“Em. loves us and we love her, therefore we can 
never really lose her in this world nor the next,” 
answered Susan. 

Among all who rejoiced in the good fortune of our 
little girl, none did so more sincerely than the poor 
colored people of the Wilderness Manor, whose affec- 
tions her goodness had won. 

“ Miss Em. deserves it all,” said old ’Sias, the gate- 
keeper — “ Miss Em. deserves all that, and more too. 
For I never knowed sich a little angel as she is in all 


394 


Em's Husband. 


the days of my yethly pilgrimage, and that mus’ be by 
dis time ’bout two hundred years, chillun ! Two hun- 
dred years, more or less — more or less , honies ; for I 
wouldn’t be guilty of a falsehood on no account,” added 
’Sias, solemnly. 

“ Yes, Miss Em. was a good gal, sure enough,” put in 
Aunt Sally. “ Miss Em. never meant no harm, and she 
never did nothing to nobody.” 

Never did nothing to nobody repeated old ’Sias, in 
supreme scorn. “ That's your notion of an angel and of 
Miss Em., is it ? You put my pipe out with your ‘ Never 
did nothing to nobody !’ Miss Em. was always doing 
good to everybody, there !” 

“ Well, I thinks as people what means no harm and 
never does nothing to nobody is a heap gooder than 
them as is always a aggrawating people,” retorted Sally. 

Before taking leave of old ’Sias I must mention one 
circumstance of which I hope my readers will be glad, 
for his sake. 

Sereny, to use her own words, “got religion.” She 
really did y if a total though gradual change of heart and 
life and manners for the better was any proof of it. 
And she became at last what she had promised to be at 
first, the comfort of her poor, old, patient husband’s lat- 
ter days. 

Jn the spring of the following year Ronald and Emo- 
tyn were married. 

Ronald, who was, in the right of his wife, the owner 
and the heir of more wealth than he would ever know 
what to do with, resigned his commission in the Navy. 

“ It is all very well,” he said, “ to talk of the duty of 
serving one’s country, but there are hundreds of men 
who are just as able and as willing to serve as I am, and 
who need my position a great deal more than I do. I 


Conclusion. 


395 


must resign to make room for one of them — as well as 
to stay home with my bonny bride.” 

Of course Em. agreed with him in this. 

Their honeymoon was spent at Edengarden, while the 
Wilderness Manor-house, which had been given to Em. 
as her marriage portion, was being renovated to receive 
the newly-married pair. 

John Palmer and his family were to continue to live 
in the Red Wing and manage the estate. 

Mr. and Mrs. Leonidas Bruce consented to reside at 
The Breezes as long as the aged commodore should 
live. 


THE END. 


A Fresh Translation from the German. 



DEAR ELSIE 

A Nooel. 


TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF 

JOHANNES VAN DEWALL, 


BY 

MARY J. SAFFORD, 

Translator of “ Wife and Woman ,” “ Little Heather-Blossom ,” 
u Love Is Lord of A Ilf “ True Daughter of 
Hartensteinf etc., etc. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WARREN B. DAVIS AND WILSON 
DE MEZA. 

12mo. 336 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


All who have read Miss SafFord’s delightful translations from 
the German will welcome “Dear Elsie,” which is one of the 
sweetest and prettiest and most artistic novels from the German 
that we have met with. The characters are quite out of the com- 
mon run, and glimpses are given of high life in Paris, of brilliant 
scenes under the Empire, and of the perils of a youthful heiress 
in the brilliant and corrupt society gathered from all parts of 
Europe by the lavish display of Louis Napoleon’s court at the 
Tuileries. But in German novels, as in German life, honest love 
and simplicity and sincerity of character come out of the crucible 
only purified and strengthened. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


“A GOOD FRENCH NOVEL.” 


MADEMOISELLE DESROCHES 

BY 

Andre Theuriet, 

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH 

By META DE VERE. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY HARRY C. EDWARDS. 


12mo. 320 Pagres. Illustrated. Handsomely Bound in Cloth, 

Price, $1.00. Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


Andre Theuriet is a name well known to readers of choice 
fiction. Her novels occupy a high place in modern French 
literature. Many of them have been translated and published 
here, but this one, so far as we can ascertain, is entirely new. 
It is the story of a French physician’s daughter brought up by a 
French peasant family, whose good sense and delicacy of feeling 
are strengthened by a simple country life. Her subsequent his- 
tory is full of interest, and shows how closely character and truth 
and romance are related. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William *nd Spruce Streets, New York 


The Breach of Custom 


TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 


BY 

Mrs. D. M. Lowrey 


WITH CHOICE ILLUSTRATIONS BY O. W. SIMONS. 


Paper Cover, 50 Cents. Bound Volume, $1.00. 


This is a translation of an interesting and beautiful German 
novel, introducing ar, artist and his family, and dealing with the 
most pathetic circumstances and situations. The heroine is an 
ideal character. Her self-sacrifice is noble and exalted, and the 
influence which radiates from her is pure and ennobling. Every 
one who reads this book will feel that it is one which will be a 
life influence. Few German stories have more movement or are 
more interesting. There are great variety and charm in the 
characters and situations. 

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of 
price by 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, Publishers, 

182 William Street, New York, 


LOVE IS LORD OF ALL; 

OR, 

NEIGHBORING STEPPES. 

21 Noucl. 


ADAPTED FROM THE GERMAN 


BY MARY J. SAFFORD, 

Translator of “ Wife and Woman,” li Little Heather- Blossom,” 
“ True Daughter of Hartenstein,” etc., etc. 

y 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. A. CARTER. / 




12mo. 350 Pag-es. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


The second title of this story, “ Neighboring Steppes,” indi- 
cates the scene of the story, which is adjoining estates on the 
great plains of Poland. The heir of a ruined and dissipated 
nobleman falls in love with the daughter of a rich Jew who has 
bought one of the estates of the family. The beautiful character 
of the Jewess and the heroism of the young baron are in refresh- 
ing contrast to the narrow pride and contemptible conduct of 
those who endeavor to break off their intimacy. It is a surpass- 
ingly interesting sketch of foreign life made familiar by the action 
of human passions which are the same the world over. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, post- 
paid, on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


HOSTETTER'S STOMACH BITTERS 

A Good Alterative and Tonio for Family Purposes. 


TRY THE 

National Tonic 


-FOR- 


hdigestion, 

Liver Complaint, 


THE BITTERS 

WILD 

Strengthen the Stomach, 

Rouse the Liver, 

Regulate the Kidneys, 
Purify the Blood, 

And Restore Health and Vigor. 

The botanic and remedial agents combined in the preparation of 
Hostetler’s Stomach Bitters comprise some of the most efficacious 
extracts of herbs, barks, and roots known to botanical medicine, harmo- 
niously combined after along experience and observation of their practical 
effects, with a purified spirituous basis, from which all harmful elements 
are eliminated. It arouses the stagnant and impoverished blood currents, 
and sends a thrill of joy with every pulsation of the heart. 

Ask your Druggist for it, and see that you get Eostetter's Stomaoh Bitters. 

l THE HOSTETTER COMPANY, PTOR 

M. L. MYEBS, Seoretary and Treasurer . ) PITTSBURGH, PA. 


Kidney and Bladder Disease. 




FACIAL BLEMISHES 

The Largest Establishment in the World for the 
treatment of Hair and Scalp, Eczema, Moles, 
Warts, Superfluous Hair, Birthmarks, Moth, Frec- 
kles, Wrinkles, Bed Nose, Red Veins, Oily Skin, 
Acne, Pimples, Blackheads, Barber’s Itch, Scars, 
Fittings, Powder Marks, Bleaching, Facial Develop- 
ment, Hollow or Sunken Cheeks, etc. Consultation 
free at olfice or by letter. 128 page book on all 
skin and scalp affections and their treatment, sent 

sealed to any address on receipt of 10 cents. 

JOHN H. WOODBFUY, Dermatologist, 125 West 42d St., 
New York. City. WOODBURY’S FACIAL SOAP for the Skin 
and Scalp, at Druggists, or by mail, 50 cents. 

*ThE SECRET of many agirl’s beauty is her teeth. 

It becomes a secret no longer when she whis- 
pers “PROPHYLACTIC.” 

Do you use the PROPHYLACTIC TOOTH BRUSH ? 

Florence Manufacturing Co., Florence, Mass., will send you one for 


35*. </ y oM cannot find it. 

"U3 













































, 












. 

















• * 


rx 











** 

■ 4. 
























* 


3 ^ fr 

* 

M * * 

1 $ . 


1 






• 






* 

•Vi 


, 

1 , 


U 














‘ 
















*« 




























' 

* 






















































































































































■ 












































































